UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 

BROWSING  ROOM 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 

BROWSING  ROOM 


GIFT  OF 

Dp.   Oarl   Jellies  on 


CARL  JOHNSON,  M.D. 


<et»ition 


THE  WORKS   OF 
OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 

ILLUSTRATED   WITH  STEEL  PORTRAITS 
AND  PHOTOGRAVURES 

IN  THIRTEEN   VOLUMES 
VOLUME  XII 


Dr.  Holmes  in  1849 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


IN   TWO  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  I. 


EARLIER  POEMS,  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 
POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '2<?,  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Cfce  niViErBiDr  \3mse,  Camfribge 


Copyright,  1850,  1858,  1859,  1861,  1862,  1865,  1874,  1875,  1877,  1878,  1880,  1881, 
1882,  1886,  1887, 1888,  1889,  1890,  and  1891, 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES;  TICKNOR,  REED  &  FIELDS;  JAMES  R. 
OSGOOD  &  CO.     AND  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1892, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Prfss,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


College 
Library 


fr 


v,) 
CONTENTS 


PAGE 

TO  MY  READERS xiii 

EARLIER  POEMS  (1830-1836). 

OLD  IRONSIDES 1 

THE  LAST  LEAF 3 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 5 

To  AN  INSECT 9 

THE  DILEMMA 11 

MY  AUNT 12 

REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD  PEDESTRIAN      ...  14 

DAILY  TRIALS,  BY  A  SENSITIVE  MAN     ...  15 

EVENING,  BY  A  TAILOR 17 

THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT '*  .  19 

To  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY"      .        .        .        .21 

THE  COMET 22 

THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS 25 

THE  TREADMILL  SONG       .......  28 

THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE 29 

THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS    ....  32 

THE  LAST  READER 33 

POETRY  :  A  METRICAL  ESSAY 35 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (1837-1848). 

THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION 60 

THE  STEAMBOAT 65 

LEXINGTON .67 

ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL 69 


Vl  CONTENTS 

A  SONG  FOB  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  HAR- 

VAKD  COLLEGE,  1836 73 

THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG 75 

DEPARTED  DAYS .77 

THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER       .     ' 78 

SONG  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  DlNNER  GIVEN  TO  CHARLES 
DICKENS,  BY  THE  YOUNG  MEN  OF  BOSTON,  FEB 
RUARY  1,  1842  .  .  .  *  .  .  .  .81 

LINES  RECITED  AT  THE  BERKSHIRE  JUBILEE          .  82 

NUX  POSTCCENATICA 84 

VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER 89 

A  MODEST   REQUEST,    COMPLIED    WITH   AFTER    THE 

DINNER  AT  PRESIDENT  EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION  .  93 

THE  PARTING  WORD 101 

A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS     .        .  •    .        .        .        .  103 
SONG  FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER  TO  WHICH  LADIES 
WERE  INVITED  (NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 

ASSOCIATION,  NOVEMBER,  1842)        ....  105 

A  SENTIMENT 106 

A  RHYMED  LESSON  (URANIA) 107 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM  (TERPSICHORE)       .        .  134 
MEDICAL  POEMS. 

THE  MORNING  VISIT 143 

THE  Two  ARMIES 147 

THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG 148 

EXTRACTS  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM  ....  152 
A  POEM  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  AMERICAN  MEDI 
CAL  ASSOCIATION  AT  NEW  YORK,  MAY  5,  1853      .  154 

A  SENTIMENT .       .  158 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.     .        .        .        .        .        .159 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS  (1849-1861). 

PROLOGUE 170 

AGNES 171 

THE  PLOUGHMAN       .        .  195 


CONTENTS  vii 

SPRING 197 

THE  STUDY 199 

THE  BELLS 202 

NON-RESISTANCE 204 

THE  MORAL  BULLY 206 

THE  MIND'S  DIET 207 

OUR  LIMITATIONS 208 

THE  OLD  PLAYER 209 

A   POEM.     DEDICATION  OP  THE  PITTSFIELD  CEME 
TERY,  SEPTEMBER  9,  1850 213 

To  GOVERNOR  SWAIN 217 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 219 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH      .        .        .  220 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE 224 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS 226 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY 227 

AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES    .        .  229 

THE  HUDSON 231 

THE  NEW  EDEN 232 

SEMI-CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  NEW  ENG 
LAND  SOCIETY,  NEW  YORK,  DECEMBER  22,  1855    .  237 

FAREWELL  TO  J.  R.  LOWELL 239 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB,  1856  .        .  240 

ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY         .        .        .  242 

BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER          ....  244 

THE  VOICELESS 247^, 

THE  Two  STREAMS 248 

THE  PROMISE 249 

Avis 250 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE 252 

AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL:  TO  J.  R.  LOWELL  .        .  254 

A  BIRTHDAY  TRIBUTE  TO  J.  F.  CLARKE        .        .  256 

THE  GRAY  CHIEF 257 

THE  LAST  LOOK  :  W.  W.  SWAIN    .  258 


Tin  CONTENTS 

IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  UPHAM,  JB.  .  260 

MARTHA      .        .        .        .        ..      .       .        .        .  261 

MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD  COLLEGE     .  262 

THE  PARTING  SONO  ...     .....*.       .  267 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL  SANITARY  ASSO 
CIATION       .        .        ....        .        .        .        .  269 

FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION,  1859     .  271 

AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS         .        *        .        .        .  273 

BOSTON  COMMON:  THREE  PICTURES        .        .        .  276 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA 278 

INTERNATIONAL  ODE 281 

VIVE  LA  FRANCE 282 

BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER  CARO- 

LINE 284 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  "29  (1851-1889). 

BILL  AND  JOE 287 

A  SONG  OF  "TWENTY- NINB" 289 

QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS 292 

AN  IMPROMPTU 293 

THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS 295 

REMEMBER  —  FORGET 296 

OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER 299 

MARE  RUBRUM  . 301 

THE  BOYS 303 

LINES 305 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH         ....  307 

J.  D.  R 309 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION    ....  309 

"CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY  WHOM  YE  WILL  SERVE"  .  313 

F.  W.  C 315 

THE  LAST  CHARGE 318 

OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND 319 

SHERMAN  's  IN  SAVANNAH 321 

MY  ANNUAL  .  322 


CONTENTS  ix 

ALL  HERE 325 

ONCE  MORE 328 

THE  OLD  CRUISER 332 

HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING          ....  335 

EVEN-SONG 336 

THE  SMILING  LISTENER 341 

OUR  SWEET  SINGER  :  J.  A 344 

H.  C.  M.,  H.  S.,  J.  K.  W 347 

WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR 349 

OUR  BANKER 350 

FOR  CLASS-MEETING 353 

"AoAMicos" 356 

HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT 359 

THE  LAST  SURVIVOR 364 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND  GIL  BLAS     ....  369 

THE  SHADOWS 373 

BENJAMIN  PEIRCE 375 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT 377 

A  LOVING-CUP  SONG 381 

THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 383 

THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON 384 

THE  OLD  TUNE 386 

THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE 387 

THE  ANGEL-THIEF 389 

AFTER  THE  CURFEW 390 

POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAK 
FAST-TABLE  (1857-1858). 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 393 

SUN  AND  SHADOW 394 

MUSA 395 

A  PARTING  HEALTH  :  To  J.  L.  MOTLEY  .        .        .  398 

WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK           .        .        .        .        .        .  400 

SPRING  HAS  COME 401 

PROLOGUE 404 


x  CONTENTS 

LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 407 

ALBUM  VERSES      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  408 

A  GOOD  TIME  GOING!       .        .        .        .       .        .  409 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM .  412 

CONTENTMENT 414 

./ESTIVATION 416 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE  ;  OR,  THE  WONDERFUL 

"  ONE-HOSS  SHAY  " 417 

PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY  ;    OR,  THE   PRESIDENT'S 

OLD  ARM-CHAIR 421 

ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING,  WITH  SLIGHT  ALTERA 
TIONS  BY  A  TEETOTALER 427 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAK 
FAST-TABLE   (1858-1859). 

UNDER  THE  VIOLETS 428 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 430 

A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 430 

THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH 431 

IRIS,  HER  BOOK 433 

ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN 435 

ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER 437 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO 438 

MIDSUMMER 440 

DE  SAUTY 442 

NOTES .445 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTKATIONS 


FAOB 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  AT  THE  AGE  OF  40.    Engraved 

on  Steel,  by  J.  A.  J.  Wilcox Frontispiece 

THE  LAST  LEAF     ....  Howard  Pyle 4 

EDWARD  EVEKETT 94 

AGNES Mary  Hallock  Foote  ....  178 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE 256 

BILL  AND  JOE William  T.  Smedley  ....  288 

THE  ONE-Hoss  SHAY  .     .     .  Howard  Pyle 420 


CARL  JOHNSON,  M.D. 


TO  MY  READERS 

NAY,  blame  me  not ;  I  might  have  spared 
Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse, 

Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shared, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 

And  some  might  say,  "  Those  ruder  songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have  lost ; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost." 

When  those  I  wrote,  my  locks  were  brown, 
When  these  I  write  —  ah,  well-a-day ! 

The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 
ID  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May ! 

Go,  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 

Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust ; 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust  ? 

O  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb, 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 

Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom ! 
How  long  before  his  book  shall  die  ? 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age,  — 


xiv  TO  MY  READERS 

I  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 
And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 

Before  we  sighed,  our  griefs  were  told ; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung ; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek,  — 
Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell 

That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 
How  thrushes  sing  or  lilacs  smell  ? 

Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 

Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderest  tone ; 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled,  — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed,  — 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build. 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find  ; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach ; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms  ;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them  ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

April  8,  1862. 


EARLIER  POEMS 

1830-1836 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

This  was  the  popular  name  by  which  the  frigate  Constitution 
•was  known.  The  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  Boston  Daily 
Advertiser,  at  the  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  the 
old  ship  as  unfit  for  service.  I  subjoin  the  paragraph  which 
led  to  the  writing  of  the  poem.  It  is  from  the  Advertiser  of 
Tuesday,  September  14,  1830  :  — 

"  Old  Ironsides.  —  It  has  been  affirmed  upon  good  authority 
that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  has  recommended  to  the  Board  of 
Navy  Commissioners  to  dispose  of  the  frigate  Constitution.  Since 
it  has  been  understood  that  such  a  step  was  in  contemplation  we 
have  heard  but  one  opinion  expressed,  and  that  in  decided  disap 
probation  of  the  measure.  Such  a  national  object  of  interest, 
so  endeared  to  our  national  pride  as  Old  Ironsides  is,  should 
never  by  any  act  of  our  government  cease  to  belong  to  the  Navy, 
so  long  as  our  country  is  to  be  found  upon  the  map  of  nations. 
In  England  it  was  lately  determined  by  the  Admiralty  to  cut  the 
Victory,  a  one-hundred  gun  ship  (which  it  will  be  recollected  bore 
the  flag  of  Lord  Nelson  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,)  down  to  a 
seventy-four,  but  so  loud  were  the  lamentations  of  the  people  upon 
the  proposed  measure  that  the  intention  was  abandoned.  We 
confidently  anticipate  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  will  in  like 
manner  consult  the  general  wish  in  regard  to  the  Constitution,  and 
either  let  her  remain  in  ordinary  or  rebuild  her  whenever  the  pub 
lic  service  may  require."  —  New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 


2  EARLIER  POEMS 

The  poem  was  an  impromptu  outburst  of  feeling  and  was  pub 
lished  on  the  next  day  but  one  after  reading  the  above  para 
graph. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 


THE  LAST  LEAF 


THE  LAST  LEAF 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  appearance  in  one  of  our 
streets  of  a  venerable  relic  of  the  Revolution,  said  to  be  one  of 
the  party  who  threw  the  tea  overboard  in  Boston  Harbor.  He 
was  a  fine  monumental  specimen  in  his  cocked  hat  and  knee 
breeches,  with  his  buckled  shoes  and  his  sturdy  cane.  The  smile 
with  which  I,  as  a  young-  man,  greeted  him,  meant  no  disrespect  to 
an  honored  fellow-citizen  whose  costume  was  out  of  date,  but  whose 
patriotism  never  changed  with  years.  I  do  not  recall  any  earlier 
example  of  this  form  of  verse,  which  was  commended  by  the  fas 
tidious  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  made  a  copy  of  the  whole  poem 
which  I  have  in  his  own  handwriting.  Good  Abraham  Lincoln 
had  a  great  liking  for  the  poem,  and  repeated  it  from  memory  to 
Governor  Andrew,  as  the  governor  himself  told  me. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knif e  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 


EARLIER  POEMS 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back,        • 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 


I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  qtieer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 
In  the  spring, 


The  Last  Leaf 


THE   CAMBRIDGE   CHURCHYARD  I 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
Where  I  cling. 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

OUR  ancient  church !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick,  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 


EARLIER  POEMS 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share,  — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air ; 
The  rattling  cord,  the  rolling  stone, 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town  ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  p'ower  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 


THE   CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

Here  scattered  death ;  yet,  seek  the  spot, 
No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 

No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 
Who  leave  their  children  free ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square ; 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there  ;  — 
Alas !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

What  need  of  more  beside  ? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 


EARLIER  POEMS 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes ; 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride ! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone ; 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 

Wlien  damps  beneath  and  storms  above 
Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 

Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust  grove 
Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers ; 


TO  AN  INSECT 


And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


TO  AN  INSECT 

The  Katydid  is  "  a  species  of  grasshopper  found  in  the  United 
States,  so  called  from  the  sound  which  it  makes."  — Worcester. 

I  used  to  hear  this  insect  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  but  I 
do  not  rememher  hearing  it  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  where 
I  passed  my  boyhood.  It  is  w«ll  known  in  other  towns  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Boston. 

I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill ; 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

Oh  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 
And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 


10  EARLIER  POEMS 

And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 
And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 

Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

I  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE  DILEMMA  11 


THE  DILEMMA 

Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark ; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 
The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue,  — 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die  ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 
With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed  ; 
She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair, 
Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 
But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 
And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 
Came  marching  in,  —  their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 

The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 


12  EARLIER  POEMS 

And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze ; 
She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green  ; 
She  looked  at  me ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake ; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


MY  AUNT 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 


MY  AUNT  13 

I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When  through  a  double  convex  lens 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa!  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June  ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels/and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins  ;  — 
Oh  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 


14  EARLIER  POEMS 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back  ; 
,  (By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track ;) 
"  Ah !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man !  " 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one.  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD  PEDESTRIAN 

I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 
And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was  cutting  a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way  ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still, 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 


DAILY  TRIALS  15 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers  ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 
And  constables  cluster  around  him, 

And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole  deep 
Where  their  spectre  eyes  have  found  him ! 

Ay !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your  thong, 

And  bid  your  steed  go  faster ; 
He  does  not  know,  as  he  scrambles  along, 

That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master  ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 
Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me  ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 
With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave  me  I 


DAILY  TRIALS 

BY  A   SENSITIVE   MAN 

OH,  there  are  times 

When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we  hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's  ear 

His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong  !  ding  dong ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  —  woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long ! 


16  EARLIER  POEMS 

From  crib  to  shroud ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as  we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 

The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in  the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,  wakening  one  by  one, 

Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws  round  us,  then  the  lonely  caterwaul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall,  — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar  ; 
Men,  plugless  word-spouts,  whose  deep  fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 

Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal  ass  ; 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 

Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  machine, 
Which  grinding,  squeaks,  with  husky  groans  be- 
tween, 

Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 
Thin  horses  of  a  Sunday,  —  men,  with  clams, 


EVENING  IT 

Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their  dams 
From  hill  to  hill. 

Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  despair, 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your  fill ; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


EVENING 

BY   A   TAILOR 

DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe  1 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?    Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with ;  —  but  yet  I  love  thee, 


18  EARLIER  POEMS 

Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 
Oh  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 
I  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 
When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 
I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 
Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 
My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 
And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors  ; 
They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an  heirloom 
From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 
It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 
When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 
And  it  did  burn  me,  —  oh,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  —  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me  ;  —  I  can  hail  the  flowers 


THE  DORCHESTER   GIANT  19 

That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 


THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT 

The  "  pudding-stone  "  is  a  remarkable  conglomerate  found  very 
abundantly  in  the  towns  mentioned,  all  of  which  are  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Boston.  We  used  in  those  primitive  days  to  ask  friends 
to  ride  with  us  when  we  meant  to  take  them  to  drive  with  us. 

THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 

A  mighty  one  was  he  ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold ; 

And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king ; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then, 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three, 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen  ; 
The  children  roared  ;  quoth  the  giant,  "  Be  still  1 " 
And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 


20  EARLIER  POEMS 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State-House  dome  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  There  's  something  for  you  to  eat ; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 

And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away  ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout, 
Said  he,  "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get  out, 

Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  he  strode  the  fields  along ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 

When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 

It  is  n't  for  me  to  show  ; 
There  's  many  a  thing  that 's  twice  as  queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 

The  wife  and  the  children  sad? 
Oh,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 
Screaming,  and  throwing  their  pudding  about, 

Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 
They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 


TO   THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY"       21 

And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw ; 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 

For  ages  have  floated  by  ; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow-bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 

But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride, 
The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 

TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY" 

IK  THE   ATHEN^UM  GALLERY 

WELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one  ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done  1 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win ; 


22  EARLIER  POEMS 

I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 
The  poet's  wicked  pen, 

Or  make  young  women  bite  their  Iip8, 
Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  ? 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face  I 

I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf  ; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends  I 


THE  COMET 

THE  Comet !     He  is  on  his  way, 
And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 

The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 
The  spectre  of  the  skies ; 

Ah !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 
And  satellites  turn  pale, 


THE   COMET  23 

Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 
Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail ! 

On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light 

He  flashes  and  he  flames  ; 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names ; 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam  ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  rays          ) 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye  ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green  ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns !  whiz  flew  the  balls ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub,  .S\ 


24  EARLIER  POEMS 

I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub  ;  " 

He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn,        n  rj 
Although  his  brain  was  fried,    ^ 

And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines ; 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town  ; 
They  answered  not,  —  but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg  ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine  ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS  25 

Strange  sights !  strange  sounds !  Oh  fearful  dream ! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 
Spare,  spare,  oh,  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep ! 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS 

THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 

And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse ; 

But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 


26  EARLIER  POEMS 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 

Some  odious  creature  begs 
You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There 's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum  ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home  "  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place  ; 
Your  "  auld  acquaintance  "  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face ; 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS  27 

Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and  Moore, 
Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark  !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound ; 
It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 

A  hat  is  going  round ! 

No !     Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw  ; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 
And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town  ; 
Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 

And  shut  the  window  down  ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 
Not  big  enough  for  that, 


28  EARLIER  POEMS 

Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 
Because  you  are  a  flat, 

Go  very  quietly  and  drop 
A  button  in  the  hat ! 


THE  TREADMILL  SONG 

THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs ! 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 
What  though  you  're  awkward  at  the  trade, 

There  's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They  've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 


THE  SEPTEMBER   GALE  29 

It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 
Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here,  —     • 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 
He  's  lost  them  both,  —  don't  pull  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye, 

That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark  !  fellows,  there  's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It 's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own ! 


THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE 

This  tremendous  hurricane  occurred  on  the  23d  of  September, 
1815.  I  remember  it  well,  being  then  seven  years  old.  A  full 
account  of  it  was  published,  I  think,  in  the  records  of  the  Ameri 
can  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences.  Some  of  my  recollections 
are  given  in  The  Seasons,  an  article  to  be  found  in  a  book  of  mine 
entitled  Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life. 

I  'M  jioJLa  chicken  ;  I  have  seen 
Full  many  a  chill  September, 


30  EARLIER  POEMS 

And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then^ 
Thaj  gale  I  well  remember  ; 

The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 
And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 

The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf  hat ; 
For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  ! 


I 


It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds, 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — • 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees,  - 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 


Lord !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled ! 

They  seemed  like  bursting  craters  ! 
And  oaks  lay  scattered  on  the  ground 

As  if  they  were  p'taters  ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 
And  all  our  things  were  drying  ; 

The  storm  came  roaring  through  the  lines, 
And  set  them  all  a  flying ; 

I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 
Go  riding  off  like  witches  ; 


THE  SEPTEMBER   GALE  31 

I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 
I  lost  myTSunday  breeches  I 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  them  j 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  gride, 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
"  Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,  —     . 

"  My  breeches !  Oh  my  breeches !  " 

That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 

How  changed  from  what  I  knew  them  ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads, 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches  1 


32  EARLIER  POEMS 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  EIDICULOUS 

I  WEOTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die ; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb. 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 
And  saw  him  peep  within ; 

At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 
Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 
And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 

He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 
I  now  began  to  hear. 


THE  LAST  READER  33 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar  ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth  ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 


THE  LAST  READER 

I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree 

And  read  my  own  sweet  songs ; 

Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away 

But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf 

That  some  dear  girl  has  given ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 

Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  careworn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child  ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 


34  EARLIER  POEMS 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves, 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 
Oblivion's  insect  weaves? 

Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 

It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 
On  these  neglected  songs, 

Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 
My  opening  bosom  wrongs ; 

For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 

A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  away, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before 
Is  naught  but  common  clay  ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 

For  memory  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 
My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 

Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 
In  silence  and  alone, 

Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing 

Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL   ESSAY  35 

And  give  the  worm  my  little  store 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more ! 


POETRY: 

A  METRICAL  ESSAY,  READ   BEFORE  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA 
SOCIETY,  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY,  AUGUST,  1836 

TO    CHARLES    WENTWORTH    UPHAM,    THE  FOLLOWING    METRICAL 
ESSAY   IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 

This  Academic  Poem  presents  the  simple  and  partial  views  of  a 
young  person  trained  after  the  schools  of  classical  English  verse  as 
represented  by  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Campbell,  with  whose  lines 
his  memory  was  early  stocked.  It  will  be  observed  that  it  deals 
chiefly  with  the  constructive  side  of  the  poet's  function.  That 
which  makes  him  a  poet  is  not  the  power  of  writing  melodious 
rhymes,  it  is  not  the  possession  of  ordinary  human  sensibilities 
nor  even  of  both  these  qualities  in  connection  with  each  other.  I 
should  rather  say,  if  I  were  now  called  upon  to  define  it,  it  is  the 
power  of  transfiguring  the  experiences  and  shows  of  life  into  an 
aspect  which  comes  from  his  imagination  and  kindles  that  of 
others.  Emotion  is  its  stimulus  and  language  furnishes  its  expres 
sion  ;  but  these  are  not  all,  as  some  might  infer  was  the  doctrine 
of  the  poem  before  the  reader. 

A  common  mistake  made  by  young  persons  who  suppose  them 
selves  to  have  the  poetical  gift  is  that  their  own  spiritual  exalta 
tion  finds  a  true  expression  in  the  conventional  phrases  which  are 
borrowed  from  the  voices  of  the  singers  whose  inspiration  they 
think  they  share. 

Looking  at  this  poem  as  an  expression  of  some  aspects  of  the  ars 
poetica,  with  some  passages  which  I  can  read  even  at  this  mature 
period  of  life  without  blushing  for  them,  it  may  stand  as  the  most 
serious  representation  of  my  early  efforts.  Intended  as  it  was  for 
public  delivery,  many  of  its  paragraphs  may  betray  the  fact  by 
their  somewhat  rhetorical  and  sonorous  character. 

SCENES  of  my  youth !  awake  its  slumbering  fire  I 
Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent  lyre ! 


36  EARLIER  POEMS 

Ray  of  the  past,  if  yet  thou  canst  appear, 
Break  through  the  clouds  of  Fancy's  waning  year ; 
Chase  from  her  breast  the  thin  autumnal  snow, 
If  leaf  or  blossom  still  is  fresh  below  ! 

Long  have  I  wandered  ;  the  returning  tide 
Brought  back  an  exile  to  his  cradle's  side  ; 
And  as  my  bark  her  time-worn  flag  unrolled, 
To  greet  the  land-breeze  with  its  faded  fold, 
So,  in  remembrance  of  my  boyhood's  time, 
I  lift  these  ensigns  of  neglected  rhyme  ; 
Oh,   more    than    blest,    that,    all   my   wanderings 

through, 
My  anchor  falls  where  first  my  pennons  flew ! 


The   morning  light,  which   rains   its   quivering 

beams 

Wide  o'er  the  plains,  the  summits,  and  the  streams, 
In  one  broad  blaze  expands  its  golden  glow 
On  all  that  answers  to  its  glance  below ; 
Yet,  changed  on  earth,  each  far  reflected  ray- 
Braids  with  fresh  hues  the  shining  brow  of  day  ; 
Now,  clothed  in  blushes  by  the  painted  flowers, 
Tracks  on  their  cheeks  the  rosy-fingered  hours ; 
Now,  lost  in  shades,  whose  dark  entangled  leaves 
Drip  at  the  noontide  from  their  pendent  eaves, 
Fades  into  gloom,  or  gleams  in  light  again 
From  every  dew-drop  on  the  jewelled  plain. 

We,  like  the  leaf,  the  summit,  or  the  wave, 
Reflect  the  light  our  common  nature  gave, 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL  ESSAY  37 

But  every  sunbeam,  falling  from  her  throne, 
Wears  on  our  hearts  some  coloring  of  our  own : 
Chilled  in  the  slave,  and  burning  in  the  free, 
Like  the  sealed  cavern  by  the  sparkling  sea ; 
Lost,  like  the  lightning  in  the  sullen  clod, 
Or  shedding  radiance,  like  the  smiles  of  God ; 
Pure,  pale  in  Virtue,  as  the  star  above, 
Or  quivering  roseate  on  the  leaves  of  Love  ; 
Glaring  like  noontide,  where  it  glows  upon 
Ambition's  sands,  —  the  desert  in  the  sun,  — 
Or  soft  suffusing  o'er  the  varied  scene 
Life's  common  coloring,  —  intellectual  green. 

Thus  Heaven,  repeating  its  material  plan, 
Arched  over  all  the  rainbow  mind  of  man  ; 
But  he  who,  blind  to  universal  laws, 
Sees  but  effects,  unconscious  of  their  cause, — 
Believes  each  image  in  itself  is  bright, 
Not  robed  in  drapery  of  reflected  light,  — 
Is  like  the  rustic  who,  amidst  his  toil, 
Has  found  some  crystal  in  his  meagre  soil, 
And,  lost  in  rapture,  thinks  for  him  alone 
Earth  worked  her  wonders  on  the  sparkling  stone, 
Nor  dreams  that  Nature,  with  as  nice  a  line, 
Carved   countless   angles   through  the    boundless 
mine. 

Thus  err  the  many,  who,  entranced  to  find 
Unwonted  lustre  in  some  clearer  mind, 
Believe  that  Genius  sets  the  laws  at  naught 
Which  chain  the  pinions  of  our  wildest  thought ; 
Untaught  to  measure,  with  the  eye  of  art, 


195759 


38  EARLIER  POEMS 

The  wandering  fancy  or  the  wayward  heart ; 
Who  match  the  little  only  with  the  less, 
And  gaze  in  rapture  at  its  slight  excess, 
Proud  of  a  pebble,  as  the  brightest  gem 
Whose  light  might  crown  an  emperor's  diadem. 

And,  most  of  all,  the  pure  ethereal  fire 
Which  seems  to  radiate  from  the  poet's  lyre 
Is  to  the  world  a  mystery  and  a  charm, 
An  -<iEgis  wielded  on  a  mortal's  arm, 
While  Reason  turns  her  dazzled  eye  away, 
And  bows  her  sceptre  to  her  subject's  sway ; 
And  thus  the  poet,  clothed  with  godlike  state, 
Usurped  his  Maker's  title  —  to  create  ; 
He,  whose  thoughts  differing  not  in  shape,  but  dress, 
What  others  feel  more  fitly  can  express, 
Sits  like  the  maniac  on  his  fancied  throne, 
Peeps  through  the  bars,  and  calls  the  world  his  own. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense  : 
The  rudest  savage,  roaming  through  the  wild ; 
The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child  ; 
The  infant,  listening  to  the  warbling  bird ; 
The  mother,  smiling  at  its  half -formed  word  ; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at  large ; 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like  charge ; 
The  freeman,  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  turret  of  the  land  ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down  the  wine, 


POETRY:  A    METRICAL   ESSAY  39 

To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "  Auld  lang  syne  " ; 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim, 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  hymn ; 
The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier ; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered  hair ;  — 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 
Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's  name, 
While,  unenbalmed,  the  silent  dreamer  dies, 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs ! 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind, 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind ; 
If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky ; 
If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 
Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams ; 
If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest  verge ;  — • 
If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
Of  rapture  tingling  with  its  hectic  glow, 
Then  all  are  poets ;  and  if  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were  told, 
Each  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave ! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones  that  the  spirit  trembled  when  it  heard  ; 
To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 


40  EARLIER  POEMS 

No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess  ; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has  taught 
Ourselves,  reflected  in  the  sculptured  thought ;  — 
If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred  name, 
Then  none  are  poets  save  the  saints  on  high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words  deny ! 

But  though  to  none  is  granted  to  reveal 
In  perfect  semblance  all  that  each  may  feel, 
As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions  move 
In  every  line,  where  kindling  fancy  throws 
The  gleam  of  pleasures  or  the  shade  of  woes. 

When,  schooled  by  time,  the  stately  queen  of  art 
Had  smoothed  the  pathways  leading  to  the  heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn  tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable  thrown, 
The  wreaths  of  heaven  descended  on  her  shrine, 
And  wondering  earth  proclaimed  the  Muse  divine. 
Yet  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  profane 
The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
How  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil  to  find 
What  slender  threads  can  chain  the  mighty  mind ! 

Poets,  like  painters,  their  machinery  claim, 
And  verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the  frame ; 
Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling  car, 
Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  m  its  place  each  many-angled  word ; 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL  ESSAY  41 

From  Saxon  lips  Anacreon's  numbers  glide, 
As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,  fresh  transfused,  the  Iliad  thrills  again 
From  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain  ! 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Rings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they  meet ; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows, 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession  pour, 
Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore ; 
The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which  lives  immortal  as  the  verse  of  Gray, 
In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song ; 
The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl ! 

Born  with  mankind,  with  man's  expanded  range 
And  varying  fates  the  poet's  numbers  change  ; 
Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 
As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace, 
Slow  wandering  forth,  the  patriarchal  race. 

I. 

When  the   green  earth,   beneath  the    zephyr's 

wing, 

Wears  on  her  breast  the  varnished  buds  of  Spring ; 
When  the  loosed  current,  as  its  folds  uncoil, 


42  EARLIER  POEMS 

Slides  in  the  channels  of  the  mellowed  soil ; 
When  the  young  hyacinth  returns  to  seek 
The  air  and  sunshine  with  her  emerald  beak ; 
When  the  light  snowdrops,  starting  from  their  cells, 
Hang  each  pagoda  with  its  silver  bells ; 
When  the  frail  willow  twines  her  trailing  bow 
With  pallid  leaves  that  sweep  the  soil  below  ; 
When  the  broad  elm,  sole  empress  of  the  plain, 
Whose  circling  shadow  speaks  a  century's  reign, 
Wreathes  in  the  clouds  her  regal  diadem,  — 
A  forest  waving  on  a  single  stem  ;  — 
Then  mark  the  poet ;  though  to  him  unknown 
The  quaint-mouthed  titles,  such  as  scholars  own, 
See  how  his  eye  in  ecstasy  pursues 
The  steps  of  Nature  tracked  in  radiant  hues ; 
Nay,  in  thyself,  whate'er  may  be  thy  fate, 
Pallid  with  toil  or  surfeited  with  state, 
Mark  how  thy  fancies,  with  the  vernal  rose, 
Awake,  all  sweetness,  from  their  long  repose ; 
Then  turn  to  ponder  o'er  the  classic  page, 
Traced  with  the  idyls  of  a  greener  age, 
And  learn  the  instinct  which  arose  to  warm 
Art's  earliest  essay  and  her  simplest  form. 

To  themes  like  these  her  narrow  path  confined 
The  first-born  impulse  moving  in  the  mind ; 
In  vales  unshaken  by  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Where  peaceful  Labor  tills  his  fertile  ground, 
The  silent  changes  of  the  rolling  years, 
Marked  on  the  soil  or  dialled  on  the  spheres, 
The  crested  forests  and  the  colored  flowers, 
The  dewy  grottos  and  the  blushing  bowers,  — 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL   ESSAY  43 

These,  and  their  guardians,  who,  with  liquid  names, 
Strephons  and  Chloes,  melt  in  mutual  flames, 
Woo  the  young  Muses  from  their  mountain  shade, 
To  make  Arcadias  in  the  lonely  glade. 

Nor  think  they  visit  only  with  their  smiles 
The  fabled  valleys  and  Elysian  isles  ; 
He  who  is  wearied  of  his  village  plain 
May  roam  the  Edens  of  the  world  in  vain. 
'T  is  not  the  star-crowned  cliff,  the  cataract's  flow, 
The  softer  foliage  or  the  greener  glow, 
The  lake  of  sapphire  or  the  spar-hung  cave, 
The  brighter  sunset  or  the  broader  wave, 
Can  warm  his  heart  whom  every  wind  has  blown 
To  every  shore,  forgetful  of  his  own. 

Home  of  our  childhood !  how  affection  clings 
And  hovers  round  thee  with  her  seraph  wings  ! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn  brown, 
Than  fairest  summits  which  the  cedars  crown  I 
Sweeter  the  fragrance  of  thy  summer  breeze 
Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas  ! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's  sigh, 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  blue  sky  ! 

Oh  happiest  they,  whose  early  love  unchanged, 
Hopes  undissolved,  and  friendship  unestranged, 
Tired  of  their  wanderings,  still  can  deign  to  see 
Love,  hopes,  and  friendship,  centring  all  in  thee ! 

And  thou,  my  village  !  as  again  I  tread 
Amidst  thy  living  and  above  thy  dead  ; 


44  EARLIER  POEMS 

Though  some  fair  playmates  guard  with  chaster 

fears 

Their  cheeks,  grown  holy  with  the  lapse  of  years ; 
Though  with  the  dust  some  reverend  locks  may 

blend, 
Where  life's  last  mile-stone  marks  the  journey's 

end; 

On  every  bud  the  changing  year  recalls, 
The  brightening  glance  of  morning  memory  falls, 
Still  following  onward  as  the  months  unclose 
The  balmy  lilac  or  the  bridal  rose  ; 
And  still  shall  follow,  till  they  sink  once  more 
Beneath  the  snow-drifts  of  the  frozen  shore, 
As  when  my  bark,  long  tossing  in  the  gale, 
Furled  in  her  port  her  tempest-rended  sail ! 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ?     Can  a  simple  lay, 
Flung  on  thy  bosom  like  a  girl's  bouquet, 
Do  more  than  deck  thee  for  an  idle  hour, 
Then  fall  unheeded,  fading  like  the  flower? 
Yet,  when  I  trod,  with  footsteps  wild  and  free, 
The  crackling  leaves  beneath  yon  linden-tree, 
Panting  from  play  or  dripping  from  the  stream, 
How  bright  the  visions  of  my  boyish  dream  ! 
Or,  modest  Charles,  along  thy  broken  edge, 
Black  with   soft   ooze   and   fringed  with   arrowy 

sedge, 

As  once  I  wandered  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  reeking  sandal  and  superfluous  gun, 
How  oft,  as  Fancy  whispered  in  the  gale, 
Thou  wast  the  Avon  of  her  flattering  tale  ! 
Ye  hills,  whose  foliage,  fretted  on  the  skies, 


POETRY:   A   METRICAL  ESSAY  45 

Prints  shadowy  arches  on  their  evening  dyes, 
How  should  my  song  with  holiest  charm  invest 
Each  dark  ravine  and  forest-lifting  crest ! 
How  clothe  in  beauty  each  familiar  scene, 
Till  all  was  classic  on  my  native  green ! 

As   the   drained   fountain,    filled   with    autumn 

leaves, 

The  field  swept  naked  of  its  garnered  sheaves, 
So  wastes  at  noon  the  promise  of  our  dawn, 
The  springs  all  choking,  and  the  harvest  gone. 

Yet  hear  the  lay  of  one  whose  natal  star 
Still  seemed  the  brightest  when  it  shone  afar; 
Whose  cheek,  grown  pallid  with  ungracious  toil, 
Glows  in  the  welcome  of  his  parent  soil ; 
And  ask  no  garlands  sought  beyond  the  tide, 
But  take  the  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 


II. 

But  times  were   changed;    the  torch  of   terror 

came, 

To  light  the  summits  with  the  beacon's  flame ; 
The  streams  ran  crimson,  the  tall  mountain  pines 
Rose  a  new  forest  o'er  embattled  lines  ; 
The  bloodless  sickle  lent  the  warrior's  steel, 
The  harvest  bowed  beneath  his  chariot  wheel ; 
Where  late  the  wood-dove  sheltered  her  repose 
The  raven  waited  for  the  conflict's  close ; 
The  cuirassed  sentry  walked  his  sleepless  round 


46  EARLIER  POEMS 

Where  Daphne  smiled  or  Amaryllis  frowned  ; 
Where  timid  minstrels  sung  their  blushing  charms, 
Some  wild  Tyrtseus  called  aloud,  "  To  arms !  " 

When  Glory  wakes,  when  fiery  spirits  leap, 
Roused  by  her  accents  from  their  tranquil  sleep, 
The  ray  that  flashes  from  the  soldier's  crest 
Lights,  as  it  glances,  in  the  poet's  breast ;  — 
Not  in  pale  dreamers,  whose  fantastic  lay 
Toys  with  smooth  trifles  like  a  child  at  play, 
Biit  men,  who  act  the  passions  they  inspire, 
Who  wave  the  sabre  as  they  sweep  the  lyre ! 

Ye  mild  enthusiasts,  whose  pacific  frowns 
Are  lost  like  dew-drops  caught  in  burning  towns, 
Pluck  as  ye  will  the  radiant  plumes  of  fame, 
Break  Cesar's  bust  to  make  yourselves  a  name  ; 
But  if  your  country  bares  the  avenger's  blade 
For  wrongs  unpunished  or  for  debts  unpaid, 
When  the  roused  nation  bids  her  armies  form, 
And   screams   her   eagle    through   the    gathering 

storm, 

When  from  your  ports  the  bannered  frigate  rides, 
Her  black  bows  scowling  to  the  crested  tides, 
Your  hour  has  past ;   in  vain  your  feeble  cry 
As  the  babe's  wailings  to  the  thundering  sky ! 

Scourge  of  mankind  !  with  all  the  dread  array 
That  wraps  in  wrath  thy  desolating  way, 
As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering  sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be. 
Alike  thy  tocsin  has  the  power  to  charm 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL   ESSAY  47 

The  toil-knit  sinews  of  the  rustic's  arm, 
Or  swell  the  pulses  in  the  poet's  veins, 
And  bid  the  nations  tremble  at  his  strains. 

The  city  slept  beneath  the  moonbeam's  glance, 
Her  white  walls   gleaming  through  the  vines   of 

France, 

And  all  was  hushed,  save  where  the  footsteps  fell, 
On  some  high  tower,  of  midnight  sentinel. 
But  one  still  watched  ;  no  self-encircled  woes 
Chased  from  his  lids  the  angel  of  repose ; 
He  watched,  he  wept,  for  thoughts  of  bitter  years 
Bowed  his  dark  lashes,  wet  with  burning  tears  : 
His  country's  sufferings  and  her  children's  shame 
Streamed  o'er  his  memory  like  a  forest's  flame ; 
Each  treasured  insult,  each  remembered  wrong, 
Rolled  through  his  heart  and  kindled  into  song. 
His  taper  faded ;  and  the  morning  gales 
Swept  through   the  world  the  war-song  of   Mar 
seilles  ! 

Now,  while  around  the  smiles  of  Peace  expand, 
And  Plenty's  wreaths  festoon  the  laughing  land ; 
While  France  ships  outward  her  reluctant  ore, 
And  half  our  navy  basks  upon  the  shore  ; 
From  ruder  themes  our  meek-eyed  Muses  turn 
To  crown  with  roses  their  enamelled  urn. 

If  e'er  again  return  those  awful  days 
Whose  clouds  were  crimsoned  with  the  beacon's 

blaze, 
Whose  grass  was  trampled  by  the  soldier's  heel, 


48  EARLIER  POEMS 

Whose  tides  were   reddened   round   the   rushing 

keel, 

God  grant  some  lyre  may  wake  a  nobler  strain 
To  rend  the  silence  of  our  tented  plain ! 
When  Gallia's  flag  its  triple  fold  displays, 
Her  marshalled  legions  peal  the  Marseillaise ; 
When   round   the   German   close   the    war-clouds 

dim, 

Far  through  their  shadows  floats  his  battle-hymn ; 
When,  crowned  with  joy,  the  camps  of  England 

ring, 

A  thousand  voices  shout,  "  God  save  the  King !  " 
When  victory  follows  with  our  eagle's  glance, 
Our  nation's  anthem  pipes  a  country  dance  ! 

Some  prouder  Muse,  when  comes  the  hour  at 

last, 

May  shake  our  hillsides  with  her  bugle-blast ; 
Not  ours  the  task  :    but  since  the  lyric  dress 
Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightliness, 
Hear  an   old  song,  which  some,  perchance,  have 

seen 

In  stale  gazette  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 
There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  profane 
The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain ; 
And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 
Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred  name, 
Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  country's  tides 
Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  Old  Ironsides  ! 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  smiling  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school-boy  scorn. 


POETRY:   A   METRICAL   ESSAY  49 


III. 

When  florid  Peace  resumed  her  golden  reign, 
And  arts  revived,  and  valleys  bloomed  again, 
While  War  still  panted  on  his  broken  blade, 
Once  more  the  Muse  her  heavenly  wing  essayed. 
Rude  was  the  song :  some  ballad,  stern  and  wild, 
Lulled  the  light  slumbers  of  the  soldier's  child  ; 
Or  young  romancer,  with  his  threatening  glance 
And  fearful  fables  of  his  bloodless  lance, 
Scared  the  soft  fancy  of  the  clinging  girls, 
Whose  snowy  fingers  smoothed  his  raven  curls. 
But  when  long  years  the  stately  form  had  bent, 
And  faithless  Memory  her  illusions  lent, 
So  vast  the  outlines  of  Tradition  grew 
That  History  wondered  at  the  shapes  she  drew, 
And  veiled  at  length  their  too  ambitious  hues 
Beneath  the  pinions  of  the  Epic  Muse. 

Far   swept  her   wing ;   for   stormier   days   had 

brought 

With  darker  passions  deeper  tides  of  thought. 
The  camp's  harsh  tumult  and  the  conflict's  glow, 
The  thrill  of  triumph  and  the  gasp  of  woe, 
The  tender  parting  and  the  glad  return, 
The  festal  banquet  and  the  funeral  urn, 
And  all  the  drama  which  at  once  uprears 
Its  spectral  shadows  through  the  clash  of  spears, 
From  camp  and  field  to  echoing  verse  transferred, 
Swelled    the    proud   song    that    listening    nations 

heard. 


50  EARLIER  POEMS 

Why  floats  the  amaranth  in  eternal  bloom 
O'er  Ilium's  turrets  and  Achilles'  tomb  ? 
Why  lingers  fancy  where  the  sunbeams  smile 
On  Circe's  gardens  and  Calypso's  isle  ? 
Why  follows  memory  to  the  gate  of  Troy 
Her  plumed  defender  and  his  trembling  boy  ? 
Lo  !  the  blind  dreamer,  kneeling  on  the  sand 
To  trace  these  records  with  his  doubtful  hand ; 
In  fabled  tones  his  own  emotion  flows, 
And  other  lips  repeat  his  silent  woes ; 
In  Hector's  infant  see  the  babes  that  shun 
Those  deathlike  eyes,  unconscious  of  the  sun, 
Or  in  his  hero  hear  himself  implore, 
"  Give  me  to  see,  and  Ajax  asks  no  more  !  " 

Thus  live  undying  through  the  lapse  of  time 
The  solemn  legends  of  the  warrior's  clime  ; 
Like  Egypt's  pyramid  or  Psestum's  fane, 
They  stand  the  heralds  of  the  voiceless  plain. 
Yet  not  like  them,  for  Time,  by  slow  degrees, 
Saps  the  gray  stone  and  wears  the  embroidered 

frieze, 

And  Isis  sleeps  beneath  her  subject  Nile, 
And  crumbled  Neptune  strews  his  Dorian  pile  ; 
But  Art's  fair  fabric,  strengthening  as  it  rears 
Its  laurelled  columns  through  the  mist  of  years, 
As  the  blue  arches  of  the  bending  skies 
Still  gird  the  torrent,  following  as  it  flies, 
Spreads,  with  the  surges  bearing  on  mankind, 
Its  starred  pavilion  o'er  the  tides  of  mind  ! 

In  vain  the  patriot  asks  some  lofty  lay 
To  dress  in  state  our  wars  of  yesterday. 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL  ESSAY  51 

The  classic  days,  those  mothers  of  romance, 
That  roused  a  nation  for  a  woman's  glance ; 
The  age  of  mystery,  with  its  hoarded  power, 
That  girt  the  tyrant  in  his  storied  tower, 
Have  passed  and  faded  like  a  dream  of  youth, 
And  riper  eras  ask  for  history's  truth. 

On  other  shores,  above  their  mouldering  towns, 
In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns, 
Pride  in  its  aisles  and  paupers  at  the  door, 
Which  feeds  the  beggars  whom  it  fleeced  of  yore. 
Simple  and  frail,  our  lowly  temples  throw 
Their  slender  shadows  on  the  paths  below ; 
Scarce   steal  the  winds,  that  sweep  his  woodland 

tracks, 

The  larch's  perfume  from  the  settler's  axe, 
Ere,  like  a  vision  of  the  morning  air, 
His   slight  -  framed    steeple   marks   the   house   of 

prayer ; 

Its  planks  all  reeking  and  its  paint  undried, 
Its  rafters  sprouting  on  the  shady  side, 
It  sheds  the  raindrops  from  its  shingled  eaves 
Ere  its   green  brothers   once  have  changed  their 

leaves. 

Yet  Faith's  pure  hymn,  beneath  its  shelter  rude, 
Breathes  out  as  sweetly  to  the  tangled  wood 
As  where  the  rays  through  pictured  glories  pour 
On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor ;  — 
Heaven   asks    no   surplice   round   the   heart   that 

feels, 
And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 


52  EARLIER   POEMS 

Thus  on  the  soil  the  patriot's  knee  should  bend 
Which  holds  the  dust  once  living  to  defend  ; 
Where'er  the  hireling  shrinks  before  the  free, 
Each  pass  becomes  "  a  new  Thermopylas  "  ! 
Where'er  the  battles  of  the  brave  are  won, 
There  every  mountain  "  looks  on  Marathon  "  ! 

Our  fathers  live  ;  they  guard  in  glory  still 
The  grass-grown  bastions  of  the  fortressed  hill ; 
Still  ring  the  echoes  of  the  trampled  gorge, 
With  God  and  Freedom  !    England  and  Saint 

George  ! 

The  royal  cipher  on  the  captured  gun 
Mocks  the    sharp   night-dews  and  the  blistering 

sun  ; 

The  red-cross  banner  shades  its  captor's  bust, 
Its  folds  still  loaded  with  the  conflict's  dust ; 
The  drum,  suspended  by  its  tattered  marge, 
Once  rolled  and  rattled  to  the  Hessian's  charge ; 
The  stars  have  floated  from  Britannia's  mast, 
The  redcoat's  trumpets  blown  the  rebel's  blast. 

Point   to   the   summits   where   the  brave   have 

bled, 

Where  every  village  claims  its  glorious  dead ; 
Say,  when  their  bosoms  met  the  bayonet's  shock, 
Their  only  corselet  was  the  rustic  frock  ; 
Say,  when  they  mustered  to  the  gathering  horn, 
The  titled  chieftain  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 
Yet,  when  their  leader  bade  his  lines  advance, 
No  musket  wavered  in  the  lion's  glance ; 
Say,  when  they  fainted  in  the  forced  retreat, 


POETRY:  A    METRICAL  ESSAY  53 

They  tracked  the  snow-drifts  with  their  bleeding 

feet, 

Yet  still  their  banners,  tossing  in  the  blast, 
Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the  last, 
Through  storm  and  battle,  till  they  waved  again 
On  Yorktown's  hills  and  Saratoga's  plain  ! 

Then,  if  so  fierce  the  insatiate  patriot's  flame, 
Truth  looks  too  pale  and  history  seems  too  tame, 
Bid  him  await  some  new  Columbiad's  page, 
To  gild  the  tablets  of  an  iron  age, 
And  save  his  tears,  which  yet  may  fall  upon 
Some  fabled  field,  some  fancied  Washington  I 


IV. 

But  once  again,  from  their  .ZEolian  cave, 
The  winds  of  Genius  wandered  on  the  wave. 
Tired  of  the  scenes  the  timid  pencil  drew, 
Sick  of  the  notes  the  sounding  clarion  blew, 
Sated  with  heroes  who  had  worn  so  long 
The  shadowy  plumage  of  historic  song, 
The  new-born  poet  left  the  beaten  course, 
To  track  the  passions  to  their  living  source. 

Then  rose  the  Drama  ;  —  and  the  world  admired 
Her  varied  page  with  deeper  thought  inspired ; 
Bound  to  no  clime,  for  Passion's  throb  is  one 
In  Greenland's  twilight  or  in  India's  sun  ; 
Born  for  no  age,  for  all  the  thoughts  that  roll 
In  the  dark  vortex  of  the  stormy  soul, 


54  EARLIER  POEMS 

Unchained  in  song,  no  freezing  years  can  tame  ; 
God  gave  them  birth,  and  man  is  still  the  same. 

So  full  on  life  her  magic  mirror  shone, 
Her  sister  Arts  paid  tribute  to  her  throne ; 
One  reared  her  temple,  one  her  canvas  warmed, 
And  Music  thrilled,  while  Eloquence  informed. 
The  weary  rustic  left  his  stinted  task 
For  smiles  and  tears,  the  dagger  and  the  mask  ; 
The  sage,  turned  scholar,  half  forgot  his  lore, 
To  be  the  woman  he  despised  before. 
O'er  sense  and  thought  she  threw  her  golden  chain, 
And  Time,  the  anarch,  spares  her  deathless  reign. 

Thus  lives  Medea,  in  our  tamer  age, 
As  when  her  buskin  pressed  the  Grecian  stage ; 
Not  in  the  cells  where  frigid  learning  delves 
In  Aldine  folios  mouldering  on  their  shelves, 
But  breathing,  burning  in  the  glittering  throng, 
Whose  thousand  bravoes  roll  untired  along, 
Circling  and  spreading  through  the  gilded  halls, 
From  London's  galleries  to  San  Carlo's  walls ! 

Thus   shall   he   live   whose   more   than   mortal 

name 

Mocks  with  its  ray  the  pallid  torch  of  Fame ; 
So  proudly  lifted  that  it  seems  afar 
No  earthly  Pharos,  but  a  heavenly  star, 
Who,  unconfined  to  Art's  diurnal  bound, 
Girds  her  whole  zodiac  in  his  flaming  round, 
And  leads  the  passions,  like  the  orb  that  guides, 
From  pole  to  pole,  the  palpitating  tides ! 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL  ESSAY  55 


Y. 

Though  round   the  Muse   the  robe  of  song  is 

thrown, 

Think  not  the  poet  lives  in  verse  alone. 
Long  ere  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor  taught 
The  lifeless  stone  to  mock  the  living  thought ; 
Long  ere  the  painter  bade  the  canvas  glow 
With  every  line  the  forms  of  beauty  know ; 
Long  ere  the  iris  of  the  Muses  threw 
On  every  leaf  its  own  celestial  hue, 
In  fable's  dress  the  breath  of  genius  poured, 
And  warmed  the  shapes  that  later  times  adored. 

Untaught  by  Science  how  to  forge  the  keys 
That  loose  the  gates  of  Nature's  mysteries  ; 
Unschooled  by  Faith,  who,  with  her  angel  tread, 
Leads  through  the  labyrinth  with  a  single  thread, 
His  fancy,  hovering  round  her  guarded  tower, 
Rained  through  its  bars  like  Danae's  golden  shower. 

He  spoke;    the  sea-nymph  answered  from  her 

cave : 

He  called ;  the  naiad  left  her  mountain  wave  : 
He  dreamed  of  beauty  ;  lo,  amidst  his  dream, 
Narcissus,  mirrored  in  the  breathless  stream  ; 
And  night's  chaste  empress,  in  her  bridal  play, 
Laughed   through   the    foliage   where   Endymion 

lay; 

And  ocean  dimpled,  as  the  languid  swell 
Kissed  the  red  lip  of  Cytherea's  shell : 


56  EARLIER  POEMS 

Of  power,  —  Bellona  swept  the  crimson  field, 
And  blue-eyed  Pallas  shook  her  Gorgon  shield ; 
O'er  the   hushed  waves   their  mightier  monarch 

drove, 
And  Ida  trembled  to  the  tread  of  Jove ! 

So  every  grace  that  plastic  language  knows 
To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn  words  to  simplest  thoughts  con 
fined 

Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicer  mind ; 
Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits  into  rainbows,  shooting  far  away ;  — 
From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense,  it  flies, 
And  through  all  nature  links  analogies  ; 
He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon  ! 

There  is  a  race  which  cold,  ungenial  skies 
Breed  from  decay,  as  fungous  growths  arise ; 
Though  dying  fast,  yet  springing  fast  again, 
Which  still  usurps  an  unsubstantial  reign, 
With  frames  too  languid  for  the  charms  of  sense, 
AnTl  minds  worn  down  with  action  too  intense ; 
Tired  of  a  world  whose  joys  they  never  knew, 
Themselves  deceived,  yet  thinking  all  untrue  ; 
Scarce  men  without,  and  less  than  girls  within, 
Sick  of  their  life  before  its  cares  begin  ;  — 
The  dull  disease,  which  drains  their  feeble  hearts, 
To  life's  decay  some  hectic  thrills  imparts, 
And  lends  a  force  which,  like  the  maniac's  power, 
Pays  with  blank  years  the  frenzy  of  an  hour. 


POETRY:   A   METRICAL   ESSAY  57 

And  this  is  Genius  !    Say,  does  Heaven  degrade 
The  manly  frame,  for  health,  for  action  made  ? 
Break  down  the  sinews,  rack  the  brow  with  pains, 
Blanch  the  right  cheek  and  drain  the  purple  veins, 
To  clothe  the  mind  with  more  extended  sway, 
Thus  faintly  struggling  in  degenerate  clay  ? 

No  !  gentle  maid,  too  ready  to  admire, 
Though  false  its  notes,  the  pale  enthusiast's  lyre ; 
If  this  be  genius,  though  its  bitter  springs 
Glowed  like  the  morn  beneath  Aurora's  wings, 
Seek  not  the  source  whose  sullen  bosom  feeds 
But  fruitless  flowers  and  dark,  envenomed  weeds. 

But,  if  so  bright  the  dear  illusion  seems, 
Thou  wouldst  be  partner  of  thy  poet's  dreams, 
And  hang  in  rapture  on  his  bloodless  charms, 
Or  die,  like  Raphael,  in  his  angel  arms, 
Go  and  enjoy  thy  blessed  lot,  —  to  share 
In  Cowper's  gloom  or  Chatterton's  despair ! 

Not  such  were  they  whom,  wandering  o'er  the 

waves, 

I  looked  to  meet,  but  only  found  their  graves ; 
If  friendship's  smile,  the  better  part  of  fame, 
Should  lend  my  song  the  only  wreath  I  claim, 
Whose  voice  would  greet  me  with  a  sweeter  tone, 
Whose  living  hand  more  kindly  press  my  own, 
Than  theirs,  —  could  Memory,  as  her  silent  tread 
Prints  the  pale  flowers  that  blossom  o'er  the  dead, 
Those  breathless  lips,  now  closed  in  peace,  restore, 
Or  wake  those  pulses  hushed  to  beat  no  more  ? 


58  EARLIER  POEMS 

Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar !  I  can  see  thee  now, 
The  first  young  laurels  on  thy  pallid  brow, 
O'er  thy  slight  figure  floating  lightly  down 
In  graceful  folds  the  academic  gown, 
On  thy  curled  lip  the  classic  lines  that  taught 
How  nice  the   mind  that   sculptured  them  with 

thought, 

And  triumph  glistening  in  the  clear  blue  eye, 
Too  bright  to  live,  —  but  oh,  too  fair  to  die  ! 

And  thou,  dear  friend,  whom  Science  still  de 
plores, 

And  Love  still  mourns,  on  ocean-severed  shores, 
Though  the  bleak  forest  twice  has  bowed  with  snow 
Since  thou  wast  laid  its  budding  leaves  below, 
Thine  image  mingles  with  my  closing  strain, 
As  when  we  wandered  by  the  turbid  Seine, 
Both  blessed  with  hopes,  which  revelled,  bright  and 

free, 

On  all  we  longed  or  all  we  dreamed  to  be ; 
To  thee  the  amaranth  and  the  cypress  fell,  — 
And  I  was  spared  to  breathe  this  last  farewell  I 

But  lived  there  one  in  unremembered  days, 
Or  lives  there  still,  who  spurns  the  poet's  bays, 
Whose  fingers,  dewy  from  Castalia's  springs, 
Rest  on  the  lyre,  yet  scorn  to  touch  the  strings  ? 
Who  shakes  the  senate  with  the  silver  tone 
The  groves  of  Pindus  might  have  sighed  to  own? 
Have  such  e'er  been  ?    Remember  Canning's  name ! 
Do  such  still  live  ?     Let  "  Alaric's  Dirge  "  pro 
claim  ! 


POETRY:  A   METRICAL   ESSAY  59 

Immortal  Art !  where'er  the  rounded  sky 
Bends  o'er  the  cradle  where  thy  children  lie, 
Their  home  is  earth,  their  herald  every  tongue 
Whose  accents  echo  to  the  voice  that  sung. 
One  leap  of  Ocean  scatters  on  the  sand 
The  quarried  bulwarks  of  the  loosening  land  ; 
One  thrill  of  earth  dissolves  a  century's  toil 
Strewed  like  the  leaves  that  vanish  in  the  soil ; 
One  hill  o'erflows,  and  cities  sink  below, 
Their  marbles  splintering  in  the  lava's  glow ; 
But  one  sweet  tone,  scarce  whispered  to  the  air, 
From  shore  to  shore  the  blasts  of  ages  bear  ; 
One  humble  name,  which  oft,  perchance,  has  borne 
The  tyrant's  mockery  and  the  courtier's  scorn, 
Towers  o'er  the  dust  of  earth's  forgotten  graves, 
As  once,  emerging  through  the  waste  of  waves, 
The  rocky  Titan,  round  whose  shattered  spear 
Coiled  the  last  whirlpool  of  the  drowning  sphere  I 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

1837-1848 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION 

IN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

The  Pilgrim  sire  looked  out ; 
He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat ; 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 

And  bald  enough  of  that ; 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat, 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION  61 

The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 
The  streams  that  did  not  flow; 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,  — 
A  dream  of  long  ago,  — 

He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 
And  murmured,  "  Even  so  I " 

"Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee ; 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea. 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning, — 

So  may  its  ending  "be  ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened ;  — 

The  feeble  had  waxe'd  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng ; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 


62  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

"  They  slept,  the  village  fathers, 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more : 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye  ; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try. 
God  for  the  right !  I  faltered, 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

"  Once  more  ;  —  the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Has  helped  our  Israel's  side ; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

**  A  crash,  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 
Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees ! 

With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 
Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 

I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 
Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas, 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION  63 

But  what  is  she  whose  streaming  bars 
Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

*'  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  —  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

"  O  trembling  Faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine  ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine ! 

*'  I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on  ; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers ' ! 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  northern  showers  ; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours ! " 

He  ceased,  the  grim  old  soldier-saint, 
Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 


64  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

The  Pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear  ; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 

The  weary  Pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lips  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown  ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown  ; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled ! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend,  — 

HERE  WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


THE  STEAMBOAT  65 


THE  STEAMBOAT 

SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast,  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells ; 
And,  burning  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by  ; 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 
She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 


66  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 
Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 

Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 
The  reddening  surges  o'er, 

With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 
The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale  ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !  hark !  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing  I 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire ; 
Sleep  on,  and,  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
Oh  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  ! 


LEXINGTON  67 


LEXINGTON 

SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his   couch,  while   his   children  were 

sleeping, 

Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 
Waving  her  golden  veil 
Over  the  silent  dale, 

Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 
Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 
While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the   smooth   green   where    the   fresh  leaf    is 

springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met ; 
Hark !  the  death- volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look!  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is 

wet! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 

*'  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died  ; " 
Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come ; 
As   through  the    storm-clouds  the   thunder-burst 
rolling, 


68  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath,  — 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall ; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again  ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein ; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale ; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying ! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest, 


ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL  69 

While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 

Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won  I 


ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL 

This  ' '  punch-bowl ' '  was,  according  to  old  family  tradition,  a 
caudle-cup.  It  is  a  massive  piece  of  silver,  its  cherubs  and  other 
ornaments  of  coarse  repousse1  work,  and  has  two  handles  like  a 
loving-cup,  by  which  it  was  held,  or  passed  from  guest  to  guest. 

THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good 
old  times, 

Of  joyous  days  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christ 
mas  times ; 

They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave, 
and  true, 

Who  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old 
bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar,  —  so  runs  the 

ancient  tale ; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm 

was  like  a  flail ; 
\nd  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear 

his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old 

Flemish  ale. 


70  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please 

his  loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for 

the  same ; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was 

found, 
'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed 

smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan 
divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little 
wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it  was,  per 
haps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles 
and  schnapps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next :  it 
left  the  Dutchman's  shore 

With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  —  a  hun 
dred  souls  and  more,  — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new 
abodes,  — 

To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hun 
dred  loads. 

'Twas  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was 

closing  dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and 

filled  it  to  the  brim ; 


ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL  71 

The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with 

his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about 

the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in,  —  the  man  that 

never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his 

yellow  beard ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers  —  the  men  that 

fought  and  prayed  — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a 

man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming 

eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's 

wild  halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught 

to  kith  and  kin, 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells 

of  Hollands  gin !  " 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their 

leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little 

cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in 

mirth  or  joy,  — 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her 

parting  boy. 


72  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good,  —  poor 
child,  you  '11  never  bear 

This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  mid 
night  air ; 

And  if  —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt,  't  would 
keep  away  the  chill. 

So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought  that 
night  at  Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old 

English  cheer ; 
I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its 

symbol  here. 
*T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess ;  hast  thou  a 

drunken  soul? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver 

bowl! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past,  —  its  pressed  yet 

fragrant  flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  the  ivy 

on  its  towers  ; 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,  —  my  eyes 

grow  moist  and  dim, 
To   think  of    all  the  vanished   joys   that   danced 

around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight 

to  me ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid 

be; 


A   SONG  73 

And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from 

the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words,  —  "  My 

dear,  where  have  you  been  ?  " 


A  SONG 

FOB  THE   CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION   OF   HARVARD 

COLLEGE,    1836 

This  song,  which  I  had  the  temerity  to  sing  myself  (felix  auda- 
cia,  Mr.  Franklin  Dexter  had  the  goodness  to  call  it),  was  sent  in 
a  little  too  late  to  be  printed  with  the  official  account  of  the  cele 
bration.  It  was  written  at  the  suggestion  of  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow, 
who  thought  the  popular  tune  "  The  Poacher's  Song ' '  would  be 
a  good  model  for  a  lively  ballad  or  ditty.  He  himself  wrote  the 
admirable  Latin  song  to  be  found  in  the  record  of  the  meeting. 

WHEN  the  Puritans  came  over 

Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts, 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks'  heads  look  queer ; 
Oh  the  ship  irom  England  used  to  bring 

A  hundred  wigs  a  year ! 

The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 

To  pluck  the  Pilgrims'  corn, 
The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 

Whene'er  a  babe  was  born, 
The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  but  of  the  old  ram's  horn 


74  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 
On  every  "  Sabbath  "  morn. 

But  soon  they  knocked  the  wigwams  down, 

And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 

In  shape  of  steeples  slim  ; 
And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 

Along  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  up  the  little  school-house  shot 

To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 

And  when  at  length  the  College  rose, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by : 
But  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  words 

Came  tumbling  from  his  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squaws. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son  ; 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun  ;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one ! 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 
That  commons  now  afford, 


THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG  75 

But  succotash  and  hominy 

Were  smoking  on  the  board  ; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 

Or  dash  in  long-tailed  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 

The  tators  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough  ; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 

And  tender  maids  are  tough  ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  rough  I 


THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG 

The  island  referred  to  is  a  domain  of  princely  proportions, 
•which  has  long  been  the  seat  of  a  generous  hospitality.  Naushon 
is  its  old  Indian  name.  William  Swain,  Esq.,  commonly  known  as 
"  the  Governor,"  was  the  proprietor  of  it  at  the  time  -when  this  song 
was  written.  Mr.  John  M.  Forbes  is  his  worthy  successor  in  ter 
ritorial  rights  and  as  a  hospitable  entertainer.  The  Island  Book 
has  been  the  recipient  of  many  poems  from  visitors  and  friends 
of  the  owners  of  the  old  mansion. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sere, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year ; 
So,  ere  the  waning  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 


T6  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 
We  '11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hounds 

Return  the  hunter's  call ; 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  shrill,  — 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away  ! 

No  bars  of  steel  or  walls  of  stone 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round  ; 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amid  our  island-state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  awhile  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  track  of  fame  ? 

Ah,  who  that  shares  in  toils  like  these 
Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 


DEPARTED  DAYS  77 

Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Robin  Hood. 


DEPARTED  DAYS 

YES,  dear  departed,  cherished  days, 

Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays, 

Irom  Time's  gray  urn  once  more, 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam ; 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea  ; 
The  mist  grows  dark,  —  the  sun  goes  down, 

Dav  breaks,  —  and  where  are  we  ? 


78  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER 

ILLUSTRATION   OF   A   PICTURE 

THEY  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings, 

As  if  my  summer  days 
Had  shaken  sunbeams  from  their  wings 

To  warm  my  autumn  lays  ; 
They  bring  to  me  their  painted  urn, 

As  if  it  were  not  time 
To  lift  my  gauntlet  and  to  spurn 

The  lists  of  boyish  rhyme  ; 
And  were  it  not  that  I  have  still 

Some  weakness  in  my  heart 
That  clings  around  my  stronger  will 

And  pleads  for  gentler  art, 
Perchance  I  had  not  turned  away 

The  thoughts  grown  tame  with  toil, 
To  cheat  this  lone  and  pallid  ray, 

That  wastes  the  midnight  oil. 

Alas  !  with  every  year  I  feel 

Some  roses  leave  my  brow ; 
Too  young  for  wisdom's  tardy  seal, 

Too  old  for  garlands  now. 
Yet,  while  the  dewy  breath  of  spring 

Steals  o'er  the  tingling  air, 
And  spreads  and  fans  each  emerald  wing 

The  forest  soon  shall  wear, 
How  bright  the  opening  year  would  seem, 

Had  I  one  look  like  thine 


THE   ONLY  DAUGHTER  79 

To  meet  me  when  the  morning  beam 

Unseals  these  lids  of  mine ! 
Too  long  I  bear  this  lonely  lot, 

That  bids  my  heart  run  wild 
To  press  the  lips  that  love  me  not, 

To  clasp  the  stranger's  child. 

How  oft  beyond  the  dashing  seas, 

Amidst  those  royal  bowers, 
Where  danced  the  lilacs  in  the  breeze, 

And  swung  the  chestnut-flowers, 
I  wandered  like  a  wearied  slave 

Whose  morning  task  is  done, 
To  watch  the  little  hands  that  gave 

Their  whiteness  to  the  sun  ; 
To  revel  in  the  bright  young  eyes, 

Whose  lustre  sparkled  through 
The  sable  fringe  of  Southern  skies 

Or  gleamed  in  Saxon  blue  ! 
How  oft  I  heard  another's  name 

Called  in  some  truant's  tone  ; 
Sweet  accents  !  which  I  longed  to  claim, 

To  learn  and  lisp  my  own  ! 

Too  soon  the  gentle  hands,  that  pressed 

The  ringlets  of  the  child, 
Are  folded  on  the  faithful  breast 

Where  first  he  breathed  and  smiled ; 
Too  oft  the  clinging  arms  untwine, 

The  melting  lips  forget, 
And  darkness  veils  the  bridal  shrine 

Where  wreaths  and  torches  met ; 


80  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

If  Heaven  but  leaves  a  single  thread 

Of  Hope's  dissolving  chain, 
Even  when  her  parting  plumes  are  spread, 

It  bids  them  fold  again ; 
The  cradle  rocks  beside  the  tomb ; 

The  cheek  now  changed  and  chill 
Smiles  on  us  in  the  morning  bloom 

Of  one  that  loves  us  still. 

Sweet  image !  I  have  done  thee  wrong 

To  claim  this  destined  lay  ; 
The  leaf  that  asked  an  idle  song 

Must  bear  my  tears  away. 
Yet,  in  thy  memory  shouldst  thou  keep 

This  else  forgotten  strain, 
Till  years  have  taught  thine  eyes  to  weep, 

And  flattery's  voice  is  vain  ; 
Oh  then,  thou  fledgling  of  the  nest, 

Like  the  long-wandering  dove, 
Thy  weary  heart  may  faint  for  rest, 

As  mine,  on  changeless  love  ; 
And  while  these  sculptured  lines  retrace 

The  hours  now  dancing  by, 
This  vision  of  thy  girlish  grace 

May  cost  thee,  too,  a  sigh. 


SONG  81 


SONG 

WRITTEN  FOB  THE  DINNER  GIVEN   TO  CHARLES  DICKENS 
BY   THE   YOUNG   MEN    OF  BOSTON,  FEBRUARY  1,  1842 

THE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 

The  silent  hours  are  near, 
When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep,  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here  ; 
And  what  —  the  passing  churl  may  ask  — 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  Toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 

And  Love  his  promised  hour  ? 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone ; 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Alas  !  no  more  is  blown  ; 
And  Passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 

Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 
While  yet  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

As  once  o'er  Avon's  side  ; 
While  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom, 

And  dewy  blossoms  wave, 
Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 

And  Nelly's  nameless  grave. 


82  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea! 

Though  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood  ; 
Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings. 

Our  western  skies  in  flame  I 


LINES 

RECITED  AT  THE  BERKSHIRE  JUBILEE, 

MASS.,  AUGUST  23,  1844 

COME  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children,  for  shame, 
Who   have  wandered  like   truants  for   riches   or 

fame ! 

With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in  her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful  lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts,  and  your 

lanes, 
And  breathe,  like   young  eagles,  the  air  of  our 

plains ; 
Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  excellent 

wives 
Will  declare  it  's  all  nonsense  insuring  your  lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if  you  please, 
Till  the  man  in  the  moon  will  allow  it 's  a  cheese, 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells  lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes. 


THE  BERKSHIRE  JUBILEE  83 

Ye  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 

Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac  line ; 

While  you  shut  up  your  turnpike,  your  neighbors 

can  go 
The  old  roundabout  road  to  the  regions  below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of  pens, 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and  tens, 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome  you  still 
As  a  featherless  biped,  in  spite  of  your  quill. 

Poor  drudge  of  the  city  !  how  happy  he  feels, 
With  the  burs  on  his  legs  and  the  grass  at  his 

heels ! 

No  dodger  behind,  his  bandannas  to  share, 
No    constable    grumbling,    "  You    must  n't  walk 

there !  " 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and 

shoots, 
He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his   youth  and  his 

boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by  the  old 

church ; 

That  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 
Oh,  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks, 
Though  the   prairie  of  youth  had   so  many  "  big 

licks." 


84  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  lie  weeps  and  he  slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were  pumps, 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him  again ; 
The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  neckcloth  is  damp  with  an  easterly  flaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  omnibus  straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy  gale, 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  native  vale  j 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and  of  time, 
"  A  1.     Extra  super.     Ah,  is  n't  it  PRIME  !  " 

Oh,  what  are  the  prizes  we  perish  to  win 

To  the  first  little  "  shiner  "  we  caught  with  a  pin ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 

As  the  soil  we  first  stirred  in  terrestrial  pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties  and  parts  to  our  feast ; 
Though  not  at  the  "  Astor,"  we  '11  give  yoii  at  least 
A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 
And  the  best  of  old  —  water  —  at  nothing  a  glass. 


NUX  POSTCCENATICA 

I  WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my  parlor 

rug, 
With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very  lively  bug ; 


NUX  POSTCCENATICA  85 

The   true  bug  had  been  organized  with  only  two 

antennae, 
But  the   humbug   in  the  copperplate  would  have 

them  twice  as  many. 

And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the  emptiness 

of  art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole,  and  call 

the  whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard   a   heavy   footstep   that  was  loud 

enough  for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming,  "  How 

d'ye  do?" 

He  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid  flesh  and 

bone  ; 
He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was  twenty 

stone ; 
(It's  odd  how  hats  expand  their   brims  as  riper 

years  invade, 
As  if  when  life  had   reached  its  noon  it  wanted 

them  for  shade !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  —  dropped  my  book,  —  the  bug, 

who  was  a  flea, 
At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  experiments  on 

me. 
They  have   a   certain   heartiness   that   frequently 

appalls,  — 
Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar  smalls  I 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  (colloquial  ways,  —  the  vast, 
broad-hatted  man,) 


86  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

"  Come  dine   with  us   on   Thursday  next,  —  you 

must,  you  know  you  can  ; 
We  're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with  lots  of 

fun  and  noise, 
Distinguished  guests,  et  cetera,  the  JUDGE,  and  all 

the  boys." 

Not  so,  —  I  said,  —  my  temporal  bones  are  showing 

pretty  clear. 
It 's  time  to  stop,  —  just  look  and  see  that  hair 

above  this  ear ; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent,  —  and,  what 

is  very  strange, 
If  these  are  real  silver  hairs,  I  'm  getting  lots  of 

change. 

Besides  —  my  prospects  —  don't  you  know  that 

people  won't  employ 
A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laughing  like 

a  boy  ? 
And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a 

shoot, 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish  at  its 

root? 

It 's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you  're  etching  out 
a  smile 

On  a  copperplate  of  faces  that  would  stretch  at 
least  a  mile, 

That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies  and  cheapen 
ing  shrugs  of  friends, 

It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a  month  of 
labor  lends  1 


NUX  POSTC(ENATICA  87 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you  're  screw 
ing  out  a  laugh, 

That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  diminished 
by  a  half, 

And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus  may 

go, 

And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your  Helicon 
may  flow ! 

No  ;  —  the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  —  but  I  'm 

getting  fond  of  quiet, 
And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my  customary 

diet ; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to  hear  the  toasts 

and  speeches, 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and  have  some 

pig  and  peaches. 

The  fat  man  answered :    Shut   your  mouth,  and 

hear  the  genuine  creed ; 
The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only  fun  and 

feed; 
The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round  delights  in 

spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day  was  great 

at  shaking  props. 

I  tell    you  what,  philosopher,  if   all  the  longest 

heads 
That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretching  on 

their  beds 


88  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I  'd  beat  those 

fine  old  folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and  twenty  clever 

jokes ! 

Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the  company 

would  beg 
He  'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  balancing  the 

egg! 
Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and  Solomon  to 

Salmon, 
And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis  Bacon 

gammon ! 

And  as  for  all  the  "  patronage  "  of  all  the  clowns 
and  boors 

That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  any  freak  of 
yours, 

Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends,  —  such  fel 
lows  ought  to  die 

When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac  so  high ! 

And  so  I  come,  —  like  Lochinvar,  to  tread  a  single 

measure,  — 
To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar-plum  of 

pleasure, 
To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that 's  run  for  after 

dinner, 
Which   yields  a    single    sparkling   draught,    then 

breaks  and  cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that 's  the  way  delusion  comes,  —  a  glass  of 
old  Madeira, 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER  89 

A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by  Jane  or 
Sarah, 

And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without  the  slight 
est  question 

If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the  organs  of 
digestion ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside  my  nurs 
ing  mother, 

Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and  every 
friend  a  brother, 

I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er  me 
stealing,  — 

The  warm,  champagny,  old  -  particular,  brandy- 
punchy  feeling. 

We  're  all  alike  ;  —  Vesuvius  flings  the  scoria  from 

his  fountain, 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back  to  the 

burning  mountain  ; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious 

Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear 

old  crater. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER 

PHI   BETA   KAPPA   SOCIETY,    1844 

I  WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the  cars, 
With   the   charmingest  prospect  of  cinders  and 
stars, 


90  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me  !  —  how  hard  it  will 

be, 
If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me  I 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will  not  devour, 
From  a  tutor  in  seed  to  a  freshman  in  flower ; 
No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too  green, 
And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you  're  never 
too  lean. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and  the  roast, 
He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a  toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and  young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 

Poor  victim,  prepared  for  his  classical  spit, 
With  a  stuffing  of  praise  and  a  basting  of  wit, 
You  may  twitch  at  your  collar  and  wrinkle  your 

brow, 
But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're  in  for  it 

now. 

Oh  think  of  your  friends, — they  are  waiting  to  hear 
Those  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remarkably  queer  ; 
And  all  the  Jack  Homers  of  metrical  buns 
Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the  puns. 

Those  thoughts  which,  like  chickens,  will  always 

thrive  best 

When  reared  by  the  heat  of  the  natural  nest, 
Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo  dream 
In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial  steam. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER  91 

Oh  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire, 
With  a  very  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire ; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle  your  Lucifer  match, 
If  ihejlz  does  not  follow  the  primitive  scratch. 

Dear   friends,  who   are   listening   so   sweetly  the 

while, 
With  your  lips   double  -  reefed   in   a   snug  little 

smile, 
I   leave    you  two   fables,   both   drawn   from   the 

deep,  — 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls  you  may 

keep. 


The  fish  called  the  FLOUNDER,  perhaps  you  may 

know, 

Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  for  show ; 
One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 
And  one  that  is  white,  which   he  always   keeps 

down. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of  flats, 

(And  they  're  none  of   them  thicker  than  opera 

hats,) 

Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity  taught 
Of    a  friend   and    relation   that    just  had    been 

caught. 

"  My  !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what  a  sight ! 
I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his  white ! 


92  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Such  spinning  and  wriggling,  —  why,  what  does  he 

wish? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish !  " 

Then  said  an  old  SCULPIN,  —  "  My  freedom  ex 
cuse, 

You  're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in  your 
shoes ; 

Your  brown  side  is  up,  —  but  just  wait  till  you  're 
tried 

And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are  white  on  one 
side." 


There 's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pectoral  fins, 
Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the  venter  begins, 
Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks  and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations  ;  he  feels  they  '11  be  missed  ; 

But  that  one  little  tidbit  he  cannot  resist ; 

So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  matter  how 

fast, 
For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece  of  the 

last. 

And  thus,  O  survivor,  whose  merciless  fate 

Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  president's  bait, 

You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the  end  of  his 

line 
The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of  mine ! 


A  MODEST  REQUEST         93 

A  MODEST  REQUEST 

COMPLIED  WITH  AFTER  THE  DINNER  AT  PRESIDENT 
EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION 

SCENE,  —  a  back  parlor  in  a  certain  square, 
Or  court,  or  lane,  —  in  short,  no  matter  where  ; 
Time,  —  early  morning,  dear  to  simple  souls 
Who  love  its  sunshine  and  its  fresh-baked  rolls ; 
Persons,  —  take  pity  on  this  telltale  blush, 
That,  like  the  .ZEthiop,  whispers,  "  Hush,  oh  hush !  " 

Delightful  scene  !  where  smiling  comfort  broods, 
Nor  business  frets,  nor  anxious  care  intrudes ; 
0  si  sic  omnia  !  were  it  ever  so  ! 
But  what  is  stable  in  this  world  below  ? 
Media  efonte,  —  Virtue  has  her  faults,  — 
The  clearest  fountains  taste  of  Epsom  salts  ; 
We  snatch  the  cup  and  lift  to  drain  it  dry,  — • 
Its  central  dimple  holds  a  drowning  fly ! 
Strong  is  the  pine  by  Maine's  ambrosial  streams, 
But  stronger  augers  pierce  its  thickest  beams ; 
No  iron  gate,  no  spiked  and  panelled  door, 
Can  keep  out  death,  the  postman,  or  the  bore. 
Oh  for  a  world  where  peace  and  silence  reign, 
And  blunted  dulness  terebrates  in  vain ! 
—  The  door-bell  jingles,  —  enter  Richard  Fox, 
And  takes  this  letter  from  his  leathern  box. 

"  Dear  Sir,— 

In  writing  on  a  former  day, 
One  little  matter  I  forgot  to  say ; 


94  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

I  now  inform  you  in  a  single  line, 
On  Thursday  next  our  purpose  is  to  dine. 
The  act  of  feeding,  as  you  understand, 
Is  but  a  fraction  of  the  work  in  hand ; 
Its  nobler  half  is  that  ethereal  meat 
The  papers  call  '  the  intellectual  treat ; ' 
Songs,  speeches,  toasts,  around  the  festive  board 
Drowned  in  the  juice  the  College  pumps  afford ; 
For  only  water  flanks  our  knives  and  forks, 
So,  sink  or  float,  we  swim  without  the  corks. 
Yours  is  the  art,  by  native  genius  taught, 
To  clothe  in  eloquence  the  naked  thought ; 
Yours  is  the  skill  its  music  to  prolong 
Through  the  sweet  effluence  of  mellifluous  song ; 
Yours  the  quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy  line 
That  cracks  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine  ; 
And  since  success  your  various  gifts  attends, 
We  —  that  is,  I  and  all  your  numerous  friends  — • 
Expect  from  you  —  your  single  self  a  host  — 
A  speech,  a  song,  excuse  me,  and  a  toast ; 
Nay,  not  to  haggle  on  so  small  a  claim, 
A  few  of  each,  or  several  of  the  same. 

(Signed),  Yours,  most  truly ',        " 

No !  my  sight  must  fail,  — 
If  that  ain't  Judas  on  the  largest  scale ! 
Well,  this  is  modest ;  —  nothing  else  than  that  ? 
My  coat  ?  my  boots  ?  my  pantaloons  ?  my  hat  ? 
My  stick  ?  my  gloves  ?  as  well  as  all  my  wits, 
Learning  and  linen,  —  everything  that  fits  I 

Jack,  said  my  lady,  is  it  grog  you  '11  try, 
Or  punch,  or  toddy,  if  perhaps  you  're  dry  ? 


Edward  Everett 


A   MODEST  REQUEST  95 

Ah,  said  the  sailor,  though  I  can't  refuse, 
You  know,  my  lady,  't  ain't  for  me  to  choose  ; 
I  '11  take  the  grog  to  finish  off  my  lunch, 
And  drink  the  toddy  while  you  mix  the  punch. 


THE  SPEECH.     (The  speaker,  rising  to  be  seen, 

Looks  very  red,  because  so  very  green.) 

I  rise  —  I  rise  —  with  unaffected  fear, 

(Louder !  —  speak  louder !  —  who  the  deuce    can 

hear  ?) 

I  rise  — I  said  —  with  undisguised  dismay  — 
—  Such  are  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say ! 
Quite  unprepared  to  face  this  learned  throng, 
Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song  ; 
Around  my  view  are  ranged  on  either  hand 
The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue  of  the  land  ; 
"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed  " 
Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade ; 
Would  you  like  Homer  learn  to  write  and  speak, 
That  bench  is  groaning  with  its  weight  of  Greek  ; 
Behold  the  naturalist  who  in  his  teens 
Found  six  new  species  in  a  dish  of  greens  ; 
And  lo,  the  master  in  a  statelier  walk, 
Whose  annual  ciphering  takes  a  ton  of  chalk ; 
And  there  the  linguist,  who  by  common  roots 
Thro'  all  their  nurseries  tracks  old  Noah's  shoots, — 
How  Shem's  proud  children  reared  the  Assyrian 

piles, 
While  Ham's  were  scattered  through  the  Sandwich 

Isles ! 


96  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

—  Fired  at  the  thought  of  all  the  present  shows, 

My  kindling  fancy  down  the  future  flows : 

I  see  the  glory  of  the  coming  days 

O'er  Time's  horizon  shoot  its  streaming  rays  ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  radiant  morning  draws 

In  living  lustre  (rapturous  applause)  ; 

From  east  to  west  the  blazing  heralds  run, 

Loosed  from  the  chariot  of  the  ascending  sun, 

Through  the  long  vista  of  uncounted  years 

In  cloudless  splendor  (three  tremendous  cheers). 

My  eye  prophetic,  as  the  depths  unfold, 

Sees  a  new  advent  of  the  age  of  gold ; 

While  o'er  the  scene  new  generations  press, 

New  heroes  rise  the  coming  time  to  bless,  —  • 

Not  such  as  Homer's,  who,  we  read  in  Pope, 

Dined  without  forks  and  never  heard  of  soap,  — 

Not  such  as  May  to  Marlborough  Chapel  brings, 

Lean,  hungry,  savage,  anti-everythings, 

Copies  of  Luther  in  the  pasteboard  style,  — 

But  genuine  articles,  the  true  Carlyle  ; 

While  far  on  high  the  blazing  orb  shall  shed 

Its  central  light  on  Harvard's  holy  head, 

And  learning's  ensigns  ever  float  unfurled 

Here  in  the  focus  of  the  new-born  world  ! 

The    speaker    stops,    and,    trampling    down    the 

pause, 

Roars  through  the  hall  the  thunder  of  applause, 
One  stormy  gust  of  long-suspended  Ahs  ! 
One  whirlwind  chaos  of  insane  hurrahs  1 


A   MODEST  REQUEST  97 

THE  SONG.     But  this  demands  a  briefer  line,  — 
A  shorter  muse,  and  not  the  old  long  Nine  ; 
Long  metre  answers  for  a  common  song, 
Though  common  metre  does  not  answer  long. 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome 

To  seek  its  peaceful  shade, 
An  exile  from  her  ancient  home, 

A  poor,  forsaken  maid  ; 
No  banner,  flaunting  high  above, 

No  blazoned  cross,  she  bore  ; 
One  holy  book  of  light  and  love 

Was  all  her  worldly  store. 

The  dark  brown  shadows  passed  away, 

And  wider  spread  the  green, 
And  where  the  savage  used  to  stray 

The  rising  mart  was  seen  ; 
So,  when  the  laden  winds  had  brought 

Their  showers  of  golden  rain, 
Her  lap  some  precious  gleanings  caught, 

Like  Ruth's  amid  the  grain. 

But  wrath  soon  gathered  uncontrolled 

Among  the  baser  churls, 
To  see  her  ankles  red  with  gold, 

Her  forehead  white  with  pearls. 
*'  Who  gave  to  thee  the  glittering  bands 

That  lace  thine  azure  veins  ? 
Who  bade  thee  lift  those  snow-white  hands 

We  bound  in  gilded  chains  ?  " 


98  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

"  These  are  the  gems  my  children  gave," 

The  stately  dame  replied  ; 
"  The  wise,  the  gentle,  and  the  brave, 

I  nurtured  at  my  side. 
If  envy  still  your  bosom  stings, 
Take  back  their  rims  of  gold  ; 
My  sons  will  melt  their  wedding-rings, 
And  give  a  hundred-fold !  " 


THE  TOAST.     Oh  tell  me,  ye  who  thoughtless  ask 

Exhausted  nature  for  a  threefold  task, 

In  wit  or  pathos  if  one  share  remains, 

A  safe  investment  for  an  ounce  of  brains  ! 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate  pun, 

A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one. 

Turned  by  the  current  of  some  stronger  wit 

Back  from  the  object  that  you  mean  to  hit, 

Like    the    strange    missile  which    the  Australian 

throws, 

Your  verbal  boomerang  slaps  you  on  the  nose. 
One  vague  inflection  spoils  the  whole  with  doubt, 
One  trivial  letter  ruins  all,  left  out ; 
A  knot  can  choke  a  felon  into  clay, 
A  not  will  save  him,  spelt  without  the  k ; 
The  smallest  word  has  some  unguarded  spot, 
And  danger  lurks  in  i  without  a  dot. 

Thus  great  Achilles,  who  had  shown  his  zeal 
In  healing  wounds,  died  of  a  wounded  heel ; 
Unhappy  chief,  who,  when  in  childhood  doused, 


A   MODEST  REQUEST  99 

Had  saved  his  bacon  had  his  feet  been  soused ! 

Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout ! 

Oh,  had  your  mother  known  that  you  were  out, 

Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling  part 

That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon's  art 

With  corns  and  bunions,  —  not  the  glorious  John, 

Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pondered  on, 

But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose, 

To  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  unrelenting  foes  ! 


A  HEALTH,  unmingled  with  the  reveller's  wine, 
To  him  whose  title  is  indeed  divine  ; 
Truth's  sleepless  watchman  on  her  midnight  tower, 
Whose  lamp  burns   brightest  when   the  tempests 

lower. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  with  what  a  leaden  flight 
Drag  the  long  watches  of  his  weary  night, 
While  at  his  feet  the  hoarse  and  blinding  gale 
Strews  the  torn  wreck  and  bursts  the  fragile  sail, 
When  stars  have  faded,  when  the  wave  is  dark, 
When  rocks  and  sands  embrace  the  foundering  bark  I 
But  still  he  pleads  with  unavailing  cry, 
Behold  the  light,  O  wanderer,  look  or  die  1 

A  health,  fair  Themis  !    Would  the  enchanted  vine 
Wreathed   its  green  tendrils   round   this   cup   of 

thine ! 

If  Learning's  radiance  fill  thy  modern  court, 
Its  glorious  sunshine  streams  through  Blackstone's 

port! 


100  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Lawyers  are  thirsty,  and  their  clients  too, — 
Witness  at  least,  if  memory  serve  me  true, 
Those  old  tribunals,  famed  for  dusty  suits, 
Where  men  sought  justice  ere  they  brushed  their 

boots ; 

And  what  can  match,  to  solve  a  learned  doubt, 
The  warmth  within  that  comes  from  "cold  with 
out  "  ? 

Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The  crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to  live. 
Ask  not  her  home  ;  —  the  rock  where  nature  flings 
Her  arctic  lichen,  last  of  living  things  ; 
The  gardens,  fragrant  with  the  orient's  balm, 
From  the  low  jasmine  to  the  star-like  palm, 
Hail  her  as  mistress  o'er  the  distant  waves, 
And  yield  their  tribute  to  her  wandering  slaves. 
Wherever,  moistening  the  ungrateful  soil, 
The  tear  of  suffering  tracks  the  path  of  toil, 
There,  in  the  anguish  of  his  fevered  hours, 
Her  gracious  finger  points  to  healing  flowers ; 
Where  the  lost  felon  steals  away  to  die, 
Her  soft  hand  waves  before  his  closing  eye ; 
Where  hunted  misery  finds  his  darkest  lair, 
The  midnight  taper  shows  her  kneeling  there  ! 
VIRTUE,  —  the  guide  that  men  and  nations  own ; 
And  LAW,  —  the  bulwark  that  protects  her  throne ; 
And  HEALTH,  —  to  all  its  happiest  charm  that 

lends ; 

These  and  their  servants,  man's  untiring  friends : 
Pour  the  bright  lymph  that  Heaven  itself  lets  fall, 
In  one  fair  bumper  let  us  toast  them  all ! 


THE  PARTING  WORD  101 


THE  PARTING  WORD 

I  MUST  leave  thee,  lady  sweet ! 
Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet ; 
Winds  are  fair  and  sails  are  spread, 
Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed ; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark. 
Through  thy  tears,  O  lady  mine, 
Head  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet ; 
When  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes  ; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes  and  spoils  thy  hair. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 
Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek  ,• 
In  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  shalt  once  attempt  to  laugh ; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  shalt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 

While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Bound  thy  chamber  bolted  fast 


102  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 
"  Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out !  " 

While  the  second  week  goes  round, 

Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound ; 

When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 
"  Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Now  once  more  the  flattering  throng 
Round  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song, 
But  thy  lips,  unweaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "  Oh,  how  can  I  forget !  " 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  girls  alive ; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed,  — 
How,  oh  how  can  you  resist  ? 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man  ; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall ; 
Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 

Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,  daggers,  ropes ; 
All  the  hemp  that  Russia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers ; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  fine, 
Never  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true 
That  would  really  swing  for  you. 


A   SONG   OF  OTHER  DAYS  103 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair ; 
Others  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
You  must  melt,  or  they  will  die : 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies ; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too ; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do  ? 

Fare  thee  well :  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 
Keep,  oh  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet ; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
"Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now. 


A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 
Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So  through  life's  desert  springing  sweet 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows ; 
And  as  where'er  the  roses  grow 

Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
'T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring  ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


104  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat ; 

But  gray-haired  sages  think 
It  means,  Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink. 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  flow 

That  know  not  wine  or  song ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down ! 
A  fig  for  Caesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Roman's  urn, 

Are  silent  when  we  call, 
Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 

To  cluster  on  the  wall ; 
It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

They  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  bravest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

Methinks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 
Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 


SONG  FOR  A    TEMPERANCE  DINNER     105 

And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 

From  dead  Anacreon's  strings  ; 
And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 

Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 
With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 

Return  the  nymphs  of  old. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 

From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 
To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 
Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers  ; 
'T  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 

In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 
And  Nature,  from  her  vine-clad  hills, 
That  rains  her  life-blood  down ! 
Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring  ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


SONG 

FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER  TO  WHICH  LADIES  WERE 
INVITED  (NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSO 
CIATION,  NOVEMBER,  1842) 

A  HEALTH  to  dear  woman  !     She  bids  us  untwine, 
From  the  cup  it  encircles,  the  fast-clinging  vine  ; 
But  her  cheek  in   its   crystal   with   pleasure  will 

glow, 
And  mirror  its  bloom  in  the  bright  wave  below. 


106  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

A  health  to  sweet  woman  !     The  days  are  no  more 
When  she  watched  for  her  lord  till  tlie  revel  was 

o'er, 
And  smoothed  the  white  pillow,  and  blushed  when 

he  came, 
As  she  pressed  her  cold  lips  on  his  forehead  of 

flame. 

Alas  for  the  loved  one  !  too  spotless  and  fair 
The  joys  of  his  banquet  to  chasten  and  share  ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in  his 
wine. 

Joy  smiles  in  the  fountain,  health  flows  in  the  rills, 
As  their  ribbons  of  silver  unwind  from  the  hills ; 
They  breathe  not  the  mist  of  the  bacchanal's  dream, 
But  the  lilies  of  innocence  float  on  their  stream. 

Then  a  health  and  a  welcome  to  woman  once  more  ! 
She  brings  us  a  passport  that  laughs  at  our  door ; 
It  is  written  on  crimson,  —  its  letters  are  pearls,  — 
It  is  countersigned  Nature.  —  So,  room  for  the 
Girls  I 


A  SENTIMENT 

THE  pledge  of  Friendship !  it  is  still  divine, 
Though  watery  floods  have  quenched  its  burning 

wine; 

Whatever  vase  the  sacred  drops  may  hold, 
The  gourd,  the  shell,  the  cup  of  beaten  gold, 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  107 

Around  its  brim  the  hand  of  Nature  throws 
A  garland  sweeter  than  the  banquet's  rose. 
Bright  are  the  blushes  of  the  vine-wreathed  bowl, 
Warm  with  the  sunshine  of  Anacreon's  soul, 
But  dearer  memories  gild  the  tasteless  wave 
That  fainting  Sidney  perished  as  he  gave. 
'T  is  the  heart's  current  lends  the  cup  its  glow, 
Whate'er  the  fountain  whence  the  draught  may 

flow,  — 

The  diamond  dew-drops  sparkling  through  the  sand, 
Scooped  by  the  Arab  in  his  sunburnt  hand, 
Or  the  dark  streamlet  oozing  from  the  snow, 
Where  creep  and  crouch  the  shuddering  Esquimaux ; 
Ay,  in  the  stream  that,  ere  again  we  meet, 
Shall  burst  the  pavement,  glistening  at  our  feet, 
And,  stealing  silent  from  its  leafy  hills, 
Thread  all  our  alleys  with  its  thousand  rills,  — 
In  each  pale  draught  if  generous  feeling  blend, 
And  o'er  the  goblet  friend  shall  smile  on  friend, 
Even  cold  Cochituate  every  heart  shall  warm, 
And  genial  Nature  still  defy  reform  ! 

A  RHYMED  LESSON 

(URANIA) 

This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Boston  Mercantile  Library 
Association,  October  14,  1846. 

YES,  dear  Enchantress, — wandering  far  and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of  song, 
Where  flowers  ill-flavored  shed  their  sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial  ground, 


108  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom  mine, 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 
Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of  rhyme 
That  blue-eyed  misses  warble  out  of  time  ;  — 
Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of  toil, 
I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil ; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne ! 

My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded  hall ; 
Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know  my  audience.     All  the  gay  and  young 
Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue  ; 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive  line 
My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and  wine, 
Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaims  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate  for  an  earthquake  laugh  j 
I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side  ; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous  noise, 
Beside  her  kerchief  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son  ; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line,  — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward  case, 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  109 

And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place. 

I   know   my  audience,  —  these   shall    have   their 

due ; 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is  through ! 

I  know  myself.     Not  servile  for  applause, 
My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause  ; 
Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 
One  bold  confession  due  to  honest  pride  ; 
And  well  she  knows  the  drooping  veil  of  song 
Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's  wrong. 
Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid  imparts 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts : 
For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate,  bound, 
She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound  ; 
For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal  pains, 
She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  resounding  chains ; 
Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 
It  lends  one  charm,  —  her  lips  are  ever  free  ! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery  noon, 
To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buffoon ; 
His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may  wield ; 
Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield  ! 
Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble  name, 
And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of  fame, 
While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's  lords, 
The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords ! 
Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts  taught 
To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of  thought, 
Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 
Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling  straw  ? 


110  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling  spear 
The   pure,   warm    hearts   that   bid    me   welcome 

here? 

No !  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of  dreams, 
To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  trifling  themes, 
Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line. 
You  have  your  judgment ;  will  you  trust  to  mine  ? 


Between  two  breaths  what  crowded  mysteries 

lie, — 
The   first   short   gasp,   the   last    and    long-drawn 

sigh! 

Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic  slide, 
Forth  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  we  glide, 
As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 
In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 
Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging  flame, 
Then  seek  the  dust  and  stillness  whence  we  came. 

But  whence  and  why,  our  trembling  souls  in 
quire, 

Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awakening  fire  ? 
Oh,  who  forgets  when  first  the  piercing  thought 
Through   childhood's  musings   found  its  way  un 
sought  ? 

I  AM  ;  —  I  LIVE.     The  mystery  and  the  fear 
When  the  dread  question,  WHAT  HAS  BROUGHT 

ME  HERE  ? 

Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before  the  sun 
Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning  gun ! 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  111 

Are  angel  faces,  silent  and  serene, 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose  dream-like  efforts,  whose  unreal  strife, 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  ? 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of  all, 
These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they  fall, 
As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 
As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful  dream  ? 
Oh,  could  such  mockery  reach  our  souls  indeed, 
Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athenian's  creed ; 
Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's  device,  — 
The  Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  paradise  1 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the  poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the  blaze, 
Lends  a  faint  sparkle  to  its  streaming  rays  ? 
Does  earth  send  upward  to  the  Eternal's  ear 
The  mingled  discords  of  her  jarring  sphere 
To  swell  his  anthem,  while  creation  rings 
With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered  strings  ? 
Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 
These  conscious,  throbbing,  agonized  machines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can  bind 
In  chains  like  these  the  all-embracing  Mind ; 
No  !  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  reprove 
The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 
And  praise  a  tyrant  throned  in  lonely  pride, 
Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  naught  beside  ; 
Who  gave  thee,  summoned  from  primeval  night, 


112  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single  right,  — 
A  heart  to  feel,  and  quivering  nerves  to  thrill, 
The  sense  of  wrong,  the  death-defying  will ; 
Who  girt  thy  senses  with  this  goodly  frame, 
Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 
Not  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 
Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsought, 
But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  supreme, 
The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen  scheme  ! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying  scroll, 
Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering  soul ; 
The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  breath  that  warms 
All  living  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 
To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 
Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its   radiant 

shores, 

Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 
Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed ; 
For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quickening  void ! 
Nor  this  alone  ;  a  larger  gift  was  thine, 
A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  design  : 
Thought,  —  conscience,  —  will,  —  to  make  them  all 

thine  own, 
He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly  dare 
The  thorny  crown  of  sovereignty  to  share. 
With  eye  uplifted,  it  is  thine  to  view, 
From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'erarching  blue  ; 
So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  113 

No  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise  ; 

From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is  heard, 

Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's  word, 

Now,  as  in  Eden  where  his  first-born  trod : 

"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man  and  God  I " 

Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  estate ; 
Thou  hast  a  choice  ;  to  choose  is  to  create ! 
Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee  when  thy  choice  is  well ; 
Remember,  One,  a  judge  of  righteous  men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but  ten  ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master  gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate  a  slave  ?) 
And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and  true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect  thee  too  I 

Nature  has  placed  thee  on  a  changeful  tide, 
To  breast  its  waves,  but  not  without  a  guide ; 
Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flame, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel ; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced  truth. 
If  passion's  lightning  fall  upon  thy  youth, 
So  the  pure  effluence  quit  its  sacred  hold 
Girt  round  too  deeply  with  magnetic  gold. 

Go  to  yon  tower,  where  busy  science  plies 
Her  vast  antennae,  feeling  through  the  skies  : 
That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  trembles  as  it  shines, 
A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the  ethereal  arch ; 


114  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Tells  through  the  mist  where  dazzled  Mercury  burns, 
And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  returns. 

So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  creation's  laws ; 
Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting  ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation  stray  j 
But,  once  defaced,  forgets  the  orbs  of  light, 
And  leaves  thee  wandering  o'er  the   expanse  of 
night. 

"  What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips  inquire ; 
"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian  spire  ?  " 
Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the  plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars  one  was  built  by  Cain ! 

Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed  we  take ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's  sake  ; 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought, 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  dew. 

Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier  hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle  flowers ; 
The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to  frozen  doubt; 
Tired  of  beliefs,  we  dread  to  live  without : 
Oh  then,  if  Reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  Memory  be  thy  gentle  guide  ; 
Go  to  thy  birthplace,  and,  if  faith  was  there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  thy  mother's  prayer  I 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  115 

Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroying  arm, 
And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double  charm ; 
In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom, 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb ! 
There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care  expand, 
And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open  hand ; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 
From   morn's   first    glimmerings   on   the   chancel 

floor 

Till  dying  sunset  sheds  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 

Yet  there  are  graves,  whose  rudely-shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton  trod ; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to  shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wild-flower  has  not  fixed  its  root, 
Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a  name, 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 
Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay ! 

Come,  seek  the  air  ;  some  pictures  we  may  gain 
Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in  vain  ; 
Not  from  the  scenes  that  crowd  the  stranger's  soil, 
Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of  toil, 
But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 
And  Care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of  Peace. 

The  air  is  hushed,  the  street  is  holy  ground ; 
Hark  !      The   sweet    bells   renew   their   welcome 

sound : 

As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung. 


116  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  stirs  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose    bell,  just   glistening  from   the    font   and 

forge, 

Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 
Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang  ; 
The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 
Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels  "  threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 
Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill ; 
Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire ; 
The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound ; 
While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 
Throbs   from   his   tower  the   Northern  Minstrel's 

chime,  — 

Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When   Ceylon   sweeps    thee   with   her    perfumed 

breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas ; 


A    RHYMED  LESSON  117 

When  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon ; 
When    through    thy   shrouds    the    wild    tornado 

sings, 

And  thy  poor  sea-bird  folds  her  tattered  wings,  — 
Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 
Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire, 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain. 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen  ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceitful  gleam, 
My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her  theme. 
See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered  in  repose 
The  living  current  of  devotion  flows, 
Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band  : 
Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled  hand  ; 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges  fall 
To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl ; 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to  appear, 
Lift  the  deep  borders  of  the  proud  cashmere. 

See,  but  glance  briefly,  sorrow-worn  and  pale, 
Those  sunken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's  veil; 


118  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Alone  she  zanders  where  with  Mm  she  trod, 
No  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on  God. 

While  other  doublets  deviate  here  and  there, 
What  secret  handcuff  binds  that  pretty  pair  ? 
Compactest  couple  !  pressing  side  to  side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the  bride  ! 

By  the  white  neckcloth,  with  its  straitened  tie, 
The  sober  hat,  the  Sabbath-speaking  eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may  read 
The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed : 
Decent  and  slow,  behold  his  solemn  inarch  ; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded  arch. 

A  livelier  bearing  of  the  outward  man, 
The  light-hued  gloves,  the  undevout  rattan, 
Now  smartly  raised  or  half  profanely  twirled,  — 
A  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week-day  world,  — 
Tell  their  plain  story ;  yes,  thine  eyes  behold 
A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 

Down  the  chill  street  that  curves  in  gloomiest 

shade 

What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose  that  speaks  of  balmier  air, 
The  Celtic  hue  that  shades  her  braided  hair, 
The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied,  — 
Poor  Nora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side ! 

Sister  in  toil,  though  blanched  by  colder  skies, 
That  left  their  azure  in  her  downcast  eyes, 
See  pallid  Margaret,  Labor's  patient  child, 
Scarce   weaned   from  home,  the  nursling  of   the 

wild, 

Where  white  Katahdin  o'er  the  horizon  shines, 
And  broad  Penobscot  dashes  through  the  pines. 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  119 

Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  fingers  hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric  fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's  heavy  wheel  she  stands, 
The  seventh  sweet  morning  folds  her  weary  hands. 
Yes,  child  of  suffering,  thou  mayst  well  be  sure 
He  who  ordained  the  Sabbath  loves  the  poor  i 

This  weekly  picture  faithful  Memory  draws, 
Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause  ; 
Faint  is  the  glow  such  barren  hopes  can  lend, 
And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier  end. 

Trust  me,  kind  listener,  I  will  yet  beguile 
Thy  saddened  features  of  the  promised  smile. 
This  magic  mantle  thou  must  well  divide, 
It  has  its  sable  and  its  ermine  side ; 
Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 
Take  thou  in  silence  what  I  give  in  tears. 

Dear  listening  soul,  this  transitory  scene 
Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene,  — 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space  of  man, 
The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan,  — 
Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied  ear ; 
Rise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere ! 

Deal  meekly,  gently,  with  the  hopes  that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy  side  : 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine  own ; 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith  esteem 
The  sprinkled  fountain  or  baptismal  stream  ; 


120  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 

Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of  life  ? 

Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughtful  Puritan ; 
But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  deride  ? 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died ; 
Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister,  risen  from  thy  new-made  grave  ? 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church  reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's  child ; 
Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  ? 
See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 
Round  her  young  heart  thy  "  Romish  Upas  "  threw 
Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening  as  she  grew ; 
Thy  sneering  voice  may  call  them  "  Popish  tricks," 
Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  crucifix, 
But  De  Prqfundis  blessed  her  father's  grave, 
That  "  idol "  cross  her  dying  mother  gave ! 

What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal  eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
Writes  each  dark  fault  against  thy  brighter  creed, 
And  drops  a  tear  with  every  foolish  bead ! 

Grieve,  as  thou  must,  o'er  history's  reeking  page ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier  age  ; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath ; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak  that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith,  —  but  hope  and  pray  for  all ! 


A   RHYMED  LESJSON  121 

Faith  ;  Conscience ;   Love.     A  meaner  task  re 
mains, 

And  humbler  thoughts  must  creep  in  lowlier  strains. 
Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?     Ask  the  worldly  schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier  fools  ; 
Prudent  ?     Industrious  ?     Let  not  modern  pens 
Instruct  "  Poor  Kichard's  "  fellow-citizens. 

Be  firm !     One  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine  solid  old  Teutonic  pluck. 
See  yon  tall  shaft  ;  it  felt  the  earthquake's  thrill, 
Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise  still. 

Stick  to  your  aim  :  the  mongrel's  hold  will  slip, 
But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip  ; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never  yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the  fields  ! 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back,  — 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind  the  coming  track ; 
Leave  what  you  Ve  done  for  what  you  have  to  do ; 
Don't  be  "consistent,"  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets;   you  have  found   your 

place 

Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 
Fretful  to  change  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss. 
Think  of  the  patriarchs  ;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath  ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death ; 


122  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

And  with  new  notions,  —  let  me  change  the  rule,  — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it 's  slightly  eool. 

Choose  well  your  set ;  our  feeble  nature  seeks 
The  aid  of  clubs,  the  countenance  of  cliques ; 
And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your  weight  of  metal  and  your  size  of  ball. 
Track  not  the  steps  of  such  as  hold  you  cheap. 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough  to  keep ; 
The  "  real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Tom  Thumbs  " 
Are  little  people  fed  on  great  men's  crumbs. 

Yet  keep  no  followers  of  that  hateful  brood 
That  basely  mingles  with  its  wholesome  food 
The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

If  the  wild  filly, "  Progress,"  thou  wouldst  ride, 
Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy  side  ; 
But  wouldst    thou    stride   the    stanch   old   mare, 

"  Success," 

Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please  thee  less. 
Shun   such  as  lounge    through  afternoons  and 

eves, 

And  on  thy  dial  write,  "  Beware  of  thieves  !  " 
Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers  steal, 
Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But  spare  the  right,  —  it  holds  my  golden  time  ! 

Does  praise  delight  thee  ?     Choose  some  ultra 

side,  — 
A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried  ; 


A    RHYMED  LESSON  123 

Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  bard, 
Spokesman  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it  hard  : 
But  know  the  forfeit  which  thy  choice  abides, 
For  on  two  wheels  the  poor  reformer  rides,  — 
One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery  painted  by  the  pros. 

Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not  out  of  print, 
An  honest  tongue  may  drop  a  harmless  hint. 

Stop  not,  unthinking,  every  friend  you  meet, 
To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street  ; 
While  you  are  emptying  your  colloquial  pack, 
The  fiend  Lumbago  jumps  upon  his  back. 

Nor  cloud  his  features  with  the  unwelcome  tale 
Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale ; 
Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his  wife, 
And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 

Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neighbor's  soul, 
Not  on  his  garments,  to  detect  a  hole  ; 
"  How  to  observe  "  is  what  thy  pages  show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss  Harriet  Martineau ! 
Oh,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would  be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  're  not  to  see ! 

I  tell  in  verse  —  't  were  better  done  in  prose  — 
One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows  ; 
Once  form  this  habit,  and  it 's  very  strange 
How  long  it  sticks,  how  hard  it  is  to  change. 
Two  friendly  people,  both  disposed  to  smile, 
Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little  while, 
Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 
And  "How  d'ye   do?"  or  "How's   your   uncle 
now?" 


124  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 
But  slightly  weak  and  somewhat  undefined, 
Rush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden  stand, 
Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand ; 
Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  extremely  struck. 
Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of  luck ; 
Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he  's  greatly  pleased 
To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both  are  squeezed ; 
So  there  they  talk,  in  dust,  or  mud,  or  snow, 
Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to  go  ! 

Your  hat  once  lifted,  do  not  hang  your  fire, 
Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  retire  ; 
When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown  you  clap, 
Go  off ;  you  've  mounted  your  percussion  cap. 

Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be  well  applied, 
And   take   them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your 

pride. 

Words  lead  to  things  ;  a  scale  is  more  precise,  — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking, 
vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips  ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth ! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to  talk ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down  ; 
Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  125 

By  this  one  mark,  —  lie 's  awkward  in  the  face ;  — 
Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue ; 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain : 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true,  — 
No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
The  careless  lips  that  speak  of  soap  for  soap ; 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road : 
Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said  at  Cambridge  most  instead  of  most, 
But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her  angry  foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

Once  more  :  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over-hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 
Don't,  —  let  me  beg  you,  —  don't  say  "  How  ?  "  for 

"What?" 

And  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those  dreadful  urs. 


126  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to  less, 
And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 
The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  reveal,  — 
We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the  peel. 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and  all  the  rest,  — 
The     dangerous    waistcoat,    called    by    cockneys 

"  vest," 

The  things  named  "  pants  "  in  certain  documents, 
A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but  "  gents  ; " 
One  single  precept  might  the  whole  condense : 
Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense ; 
But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 
And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  demands, 
If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands ; 
If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from  this, 
Have   twice  the   number,  —  for   he  '11    sometimes 

miss. 

One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex, 
Close  in  the  instep's  clinging  circumflex, 
Long,  narrow,  light ;  the  Gallic  boot  of  love, 
A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and  glove. 
Compact,  but  easy,  strong,  substantial,  square, 
Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 
The  third  remains,  and  let  your  tasteful  skill 
Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still ; 
Let  no  stiff  cowhide,  reeking  from  the  tan, 
No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  brogan, 
Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your  feet, 
Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through  the  street. 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  127 

Wear  seemly  gloves  ;  not  black,  nor  yet  too  light, 
And  least  of  all  the  pair  that  once  was  white ; 
Let  the  dead  party  where  you  told  your  loves 
Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and  gloves  ; 
Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your  kids. 

Have  a  good  hat ;  the  secret  of  your  looks 
Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks ; 
Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 
But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking  hat. 
Does  beauty  slight  you  from  her  gay  abodes  ? 
Like  bright  Apollo,  you  must  take  to  Rhoades, — 
Mount  the  new  castor,  —  ice  itself  will  melt ; 
Boots,  gloves,  may  fail ;  the  hat  is  always  felt ! 

Be  shy  of  breastpins  ;  plain,  well-ironed  white, 
With    small    pearl    buttons,  —  two   of    them    in 

sight,  — 

Is  always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may  pass, 
Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  glass. 
But  spurn  those  paltry  Cisatlantic  lies 
That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic  ties  ; 
Breathe  not  the  name  profaned  to  hallow  things 
The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when  she  brings  1 

Our  freeborn  race,  averse  to  every  check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of  Europe  from  its  neck; 
From  the  green  prairie  to  the  sea-girt  town, 
The  whole  wide  nation  turns  its  collars  down. 

The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manliest  part ; 
It  takes  the  life-blood  freshest  from  the  heart. 


128  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around  it  spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian  head ! 
Thine,  fair  Erechtheus  of  Minerva's  wall ; 
Or  thine,  young  athlete  of  the  Louvre's  hall, 
Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in  the  sun 
That  filled  the  arena  where  thy  wreaths  were  won, 
Firm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered  spoil 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil ! 
I  spare  the  contrast ;  it  were  only  kind 
To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind. 
Choose  for  yourself  :  I  know  it  .cuts  your  ear; 
I  know  the  points  will  sometimes  interfere  ; 
I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 
Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  drapery  on, 
You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished  town 
With  one  side  standing  and  the  other  down  ;  — 
But,  O,  my  friend  I  my  favorite  fellow-man  ! 
If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern  plan, 
Sooner  than  wander  with  your  windpipe  bare,  — 
The  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 
With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protruding  chin, 
Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made  of  tin ! 
And  have  a  neckcloth  —  by  the  throat  of  Jove  !  — • 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove ! 

The  long-drawn  lesson  narrows  to  its  close, 
Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  current  flows  ; 
Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward  wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhallowed  tongue, 
Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had  sung ; 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  129 

But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 

Of  all  the  essentials  of  the  "  native  bard  "  ? 

Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  mountain,  fall, 
His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them  all ; 
The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest  tides 
His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant  strides, 
Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri  rolls, 
And  tread  at  once  the  tropics  and  the  poles ; 
His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water,  air, 
His  home  all  space,  his  birthplace  everywhere. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen  perhaps 
The  pictured  page  that  goes  in  Worcester's  Maps, 
And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 
"  Who   drives    fat    oxen  "  —  please    to    add   the 

rest,  — 

Sprung  the  odd  notion  that  the  poet's  dreams 
Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams  ; 
And  hence  insisted  that  the  aforesaid  "  bard," 
Pink  of  the  future,  fancy's  pattern-card, 
The  babe  of  nature  in  the  "  giant  West," 
Must  be  of  course  her  biggest  and  her  best. 

Oh !   when  at  length  the  expected   bard  shall 

come, 

Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike  thine  echoes  dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
It 's  getting  late,  and  he  's  behind  his  time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands  in  joy, 
And  all  thy  cataracts  thunder,  "  That 's  the  boy,"  — 
Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall  end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ! 


130  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Be  calm,  dear  brother  !  whose  impassioned  strain 
Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain  ; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho  ; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't  mind  their  nonsense,  —  never  be  afraid  I 

The  nurse  of  poets  feeds  her  winged  brood 
By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food  ; 
In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 
Where  bovine  rustics  used  to  doze  and  dream, 
She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 
While  old  John  Shakespeare  talked  of  beeves  and 
wool! 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing  spire, 
Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean  fire, 
If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 

Unblest  by  any  save  the  goatherd's  lines, 
Mont  Blanc  rose  soaring  through  his  "  sea  of  pines ; " 
In  vain  the  rivers  from  their  ice-caves  flash ; 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des  Vaches, 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white, 
And  lo  !  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a  tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung ! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is  given 
One  spot  of  green,  and  all  the  blue  of  heaven  ! 
Enough  if  these  their  outward  shows  impart ; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the  heart. 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  131 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they  flow ; 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom  distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered  thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarize  thy  brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid  strain,  — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom, 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's  gloom, 
Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy  line ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song  divine  ! 

Let  others  gaze  where  silvery  streams  are  rolled, 
And  chase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of  gold  ; 
To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly  dye, 
Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic  eye  ; 
Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  flows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  are  stirred,  — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd ! 

A  few  brief  lines  ;  they  touch  on  solemn  chords, 
And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  honest  words ; 
Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle-blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing  tone. 

New  England  !   proudly  may  thy  children  claim 
Their  honored  birthright  by  its  humblest  name  ! 
Cold  are  thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh  and  clear, 
No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmosphere  ; 
No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty  soil, 
Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslumbering  toil. 
Long  may  the  doctrines  by  thy  sages  taught, 
Raised  from  the  quarries  where  their    sires  have 
wrought, 


132  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Be  like  the  granite  of  thy  rock-ribbed  land,  — 
As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand ; 
And  as  the  ice  that  leaves  thy  crystal  mine 
Chills  the  fierce  alcohol  in  the  Creole's  wine, 
So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep  the  hot  theories  of  thy  neighbors  cool ! 

If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 
Cankered  by  treachery  or  inflamed  by  wrath, 
With  smooth  "  Resolves  "  or  with  discordant  cries, 
The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 
Chiefs  of  New  England !  by  your  sires'  renown, 
Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down  ! 
Flood  his  black  hearthstone  till  its  flames  expire, 
Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his  council-fire ! 

But  if  at  last,  her  fading  cycle  run, 
The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm  has  won, 
Then  rise,  wild  Ocean  !  roll  thy  surging  shock 
Full  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock ! 
Scale  the  proud  shaft  degenerate  hands  have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Valor  stained  the  flowers  of  June ! 
Sweep  in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets  down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above  Monadnock's  crown ! 

List  not  the  tale  ;  the  Pilgrim's  hallowed  shore, 
Though  strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at  the  core  ; 
Oh,  rather  trust  that  He  who  made  her  free 
Will  keep  her  true  as  long  as  faith  shall  be  ! 

Farewell !    yet  lingering  through   the  destined 

hour, 
Leave,  sweet  Enchantress,  one  memorial  flower  ! 


A   RHYMED  LESSON  133 

An  Angel,  floating  o'er  the  waste  of  snow 
That  clad  our  Western  desert,  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone  as  a  star  along  the  Mayflower's  way,)  — 
Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly  plan, 
To  choose  on  earth  a  resting-place  for  man,  — 
Tired  with  his  flight  along  the  unvaried  field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance  revealed 
A  calm,  bright  bay  enclosed  in  rocky  bounds, 
And  at  its  entrance  stood  three  sister  mounds. 

The  Angel  spake :  "  This  threefold  hill  shall  be 
The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty  ! 
One  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall  pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze  along  the  darkened  shore  ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts  that,  kindling  far  and  wide, 
In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's  guide. 
One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's  frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling  heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his  rights  ! 
One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's  grave  ; 
When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living  green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of  Hope, 
Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope  ; 
There  through  all  time  shall  faithful  Memory  tell, 
'  Here  Virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  Valor  fell ; 
Thy  free,  proud  fathers  slumber  at  thy  side ; 
Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they  died !  ' 


134  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM 
(TERPSICHORE) 

Read  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at 
Cambridge,  August  24,  1843. 

IN  narrowest  girdle,  O  reluctant  Muse, 
In  closest  frock  and  Cinderella  shoes, 
Bound  to  the  foot-lights  for  thy  brief  display, 
One  zephyr  step,  and  then  dissolve  away ! 


Short  is  the  space  that  gods  and  men  can  spare 

To  Song's  twin  brother  when  she  is  not  there. 

Let  others  water  every  lusty  line, 

As  Homer's  heroes  did  their  purple  wine ; 

Pierian  revellers  !     Know  in  strains  like  these 

The  native  juice,  the  real  honest  squeeze,  — 

Strains  that,  diluted  to  the  twentieth  power, 

In  yon  grave  temple  might  have  filled  an  hour. 

Small  room  for  Fancy's  many-chorded  lyre, 

For  Wit's  bright  rockets  with  their  trains  of  fire, 

For  Pathos,  struggling  vainly  to  surprise 

The  iron  tutor's  tear-denying  eyes, 

For  Mirth,  whose  finger  with  delusive  wile 

Turns  the  grim  key  of  many  a  rusty  smile, 

For  Satire,  emptying  his  corrosive  flood 

On  hissing  Folly's  gas-exhaling  brood, 

The  pun,  the  fun,  the  moral,  and  the  joke, 

The  hit,  the  thrust,  the  pugilistic  poke,  — 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM  135 

Small  space  for  these,  so  pressed  by  niggard  Time, 
Like  that  false  matron,  known  to  nursery  rhyme,  — 
Insidious  Morey,  —  scarce  her  tale  begun, 
Ere  listening  infants  weep  the  story  done. 

Oh,  had  we  room  to  rip  the  mighty  bags 

That  Time,  the  harlequin,  has  stuffed  with  rags  ! 

Grant  us  one  moment  to  unloose  the  strings, 

While  the  old  graybeard  shuts  his  leather  wings. 

But  what  a  heap  of  motley  trash  appears 

Crammed  in  the  bundles  of  successive  years  1 

As  the  lost  rustic  on  some  festal  day 

Stares  through  the  concourse  in  its  vast  array, — 

Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  faces  runs, 

All  stuck  together  like  a  sheet  of  buns,  — 

And  throws  the  bait  of  some  unheeded  name, 

Or  shoots  a  wink  with  most  uncertain  aim, 

So  roams  my  vision,  wandering  over  all, 

And  strives  to  choose.,  but  knows  not  where  to  falL 

Skins  of  flayed  authors,  husks  of  dead  reviews, 
The  turn-coat's  clothes,  the  office-seeker's  shoes, 
Scraps  from  cold  feasts,  where  conversation  runs 
Through  mouldy  toasts  to  oxidated  puns, 
And  grating  songs  a  listening  crowd  endures, 
Rasped  from  the  throats  of  bellowing  amateurs  ; 
Sermons,  whose  writers  played  such  dangerous  tricks 
Their  own  heresiarchs  called  them  heretics, 
(Strange  that  one  term  such  distant  poles  should 

link, 

The  Priestleyan's  copper  and  the  Puseyan's  zinc)  ; 
Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 


136  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 

Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  ed, 

Like  old  dragoons,  have  cuts  across  the  head ; 

Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  despair 

To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was  there, 

Where  our  poor   English,  striped    with    foreign 

phrase, 

Looks  like  a  zebra  in  a  parson's  chaise  ; 
Lectures  that  cut  our  dinners  down  to  roots, 
Or  prove    (by  monkeys)    men    should    stick    to 

fruits,  — 

Delusive  error,  as  at  trifling  charge 
Professor  Gripes  will  certify  at  large  ; 
Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  appeal, 
Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught  eel ; 
And  figured  heads,  whose  hieroglyphs  invite 
To  wandering  knaves  that  discount  fools  at  sight : 
Such  things  as  these,  with  heaps  of  unpaid  bills, 
And  candy  puffs  and  homoeopathic  pills, 
And  ancient  bell-crowns  with  contracted  rim, 
And  bonnets  hideous  with  expanded  brim, 
And  coats  whose  memory  turns  the  sartor  pale, 
Their  sequels  tapering  like  a  lizard's  tale,  — 
How  might  we  spread  them  to  the  smiling  day, 
And  toss  them,  fluttering  like  the  new-mown  hay, 
To  laughter's  light  or  sorrow's  pitying  shower, 
Were  these  brief  minutes  lengthened  to  an  hour. 

The  narrow  moments  fit  like  Sunday  shoes,  — 
How  vast  the  heap,  how  quickly  must  we  choose  ! 
A  few  small  scraps  from  out  his  mountain  mass 
We  snatch  in  haste,  and  let  the  vagrant  pass. 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM  137 

This  shrunken  CRUST  that  Cerberus  could  not  bite, 
Stamped  (in  one  corner)  "  Pickwick  copyright," 
Kneaded  by  youngsters,  raised  by  flattery's  yeast, 
Was  once  a  loaf,  and  helped  to  make  a  feast. 
He  for  whose  sake  the  glittering  show  appears 
Has  sown  the  world  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 
And  they  whose  welcome  wets  the  bumper's  brim 
Have  wit  and  wisdom,  —  for  they  all  quote  him. 
So,  many  a  tongue  the  evening  hour  prolongs 
With  spangled  speeches,  —  let  alone  the  songs  ; 
Statesmen  grow  merry,  lean  attorneys  laugh, 
And  weak  teetotals  warm  to  half  and  half, 
And  beardless  Tullys,  new  to  festive  scenes, 
Cut  their  first  crop  of  youth's  precocious  greens, 
And  wits  stand  ready  for  impromptu  claps, 
With  loaded  barrels  and  percussion  caps, 
And  Pathos,  cantering  through  the  minor  keys, 
Waves  all  her  onions  to  the  trembling  breeze  : 
While  the  great  Feasted  views  with  silent  glee 
His  scattered  limbs  in  Yankee  fricassee. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friendship  plays 
The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging  praise. 
Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 
Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art ; 
Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully  withdraws 
And  sheathes  in  velvet  her  obnoxious  claws, 
And  thrills  the  hand  that  smooths  her  glossy  fur 
With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful  purr. 

But  what  sad  music  fills  the  quiet  hall, 
If  on  her  back  a  feline  rival  fall ! 


138  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

And  oh,  what  noises  shake  the  tranquil  house 
If  old  Self-interest  cheats  her  of  a  mouse  I 

Thou,  O  my  country,  hast  thy  foolish  ways, 

Too  apt  to  purr  at  every  stranger's  praise ; 

But  if  the  stranger  touch  thy  modes  or  laws, 

Off  goes  the  velvet  and  out  come  the  claws  i 

And  thou,  Illustrious !  but  too  poorly  paid 

In  toasts  from  Pickwick  for  thy  great  crusade, 

Though,  while  the  echoes  labored  with  thy  name, 

The  public  trap  denied  thy  little  game, 

Let  other  lips  our  jealous  laws  revile,  — 

The  marble  Talf ourd  or  the  rude  Carlyle,  — 

But  on  thy  lids,  which  Heaven  forbids  to  close 

Where'er  the  light,  of  kindly  nature  glows, 

Let  not  the  dollars  that  a  churl  denies 

Weigh  like  the  shillings  on  a  dead  man's  eyes ! 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  be  more  discreetly  blind, 

Nor  ask  to  see  all  wide  extremes  combined. 

Not  in  our  wastes  the  dainty  blossoms  smile 

That  crowd  the  gardens  of  thy  scanty  isle. 

There  white-cheeked  Luxury  weaves  a  thousand 

charms ; 

Here  sun-browned  Labor  swings  his  naked  arms. 
Long  are  the  furrows  he  must  trace  between 
The  ocean's  azure  and  the  prairie's  green  ; 
Full  many  a  blank  his  destined  realm  displays, 
Yet  sees  the  promise  of  his  riper  days  : 
Far  through  yon  depths  the  panting  engine  moves, 
His  chariots  ringing  in  their  steel-shod  grooves ; 
And  Erie's  naiad  flings  her  diamond  wave 
O'er  the  wild  sea-nymph  in  her  distant  cave ! 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM  139 

While  tasks  like  these  employ  his  anxious  hours, 
What  if  his  cornfields  are  not  edged  with  flowers  ? 
Though  bright  as  silver  the  meridian  beams 
Shine  through  the  crystal  of  thine  English  streams, 
Turbid  and  dark  the  mighty  wave  is  whirled 
That  drains  our  Andes  and  divides  a  world  ! 

But  lo  !  a  PARCHMENT  !    Surely  it  would  seem 

The  sculptured  impress  speaks  of  power  supreme ; 

Some  grave  design  the  solemn  page  must  claim 

That  shows  so  broadly  an  emblazoned  name. 

A  sovereign's  promise !     Look,  the  lines  afford 

All  Honor  gives  when  Caution  asks  his  word  : 

There  sacred  Faith  has  laid  her  snow-white  hands, 

And  awful  Justice  knit  her  iron  bands  ; 

Yet  every  leaf  is  stained  with  treachery's  dye, 

And  every  letter  crusted  with  a  lie. 

Alas  !  no  treason  has  degraded  yet 

The  Arab's  salt,  the  Indian's  calumet ; 

A  simple  rite,  that  bears  the  wanderer's  pledge, 

Blunts  the  keen  shaft  and  turns  the  dagger's  edge ; 

While  jockeying  senates  stop  to  sign  and  seal, 

And  freeborn  statesmen  legislate  to  steal. 

Rise,  Europe,  tottering  with  thine  Atlas  load, 

Turn  thy  proud  eye  to  Freedom's  blest  abode, 

And  round  her  forehead,  wreathed  with  heavenly 

flame, 

Bind  the  dark  garland  of  her  daughter's  shame  ! 
Ye  ocean  clouds,  that  wrap  the  angry  blast, 
Coil  her  stained  ensign  round  its  haughty  mast, 
Or  tear  the  fold  that  wears  so  foul  a  scar, 
And  drive  a  bolt  through  every  blackened  star  ! 


140  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Once    more,  —  once    only,  —  we    must    stop    so 

soon : 

What  have  we  here  ?     A  GERMAN-SILVER  SPOON; 
A  cheap  utensil,  which  we  often  see 
Used  by  the  dabblers  in  aesthetic  tea, 
Of  slender  fabric,  somewhat  light  and  thin, 
Made  of  mixed  metal,  chiefly  lead  and  tin  ; 
The  bowl  is  shallow,  and  the  handle  small, 
Marked  in  large  letters  with  the  name  JEAN  PAUL. 
Small  as  it  is,  its  powers  are  passing  strange, 
For  all  who  use  it  show  a  wondrous  change  ; 
And  first,  a  fact  to  make  the  barbers  stare, 
It  beats  Macassar  for  the  growth  of  hair. 
See  those  small  youngsters  whose  expansive  ears 
Maternal  kindness  grazed  with  frequent  shears  ; 
Each  bristling  crop  a  dangling  mass  becomes, 
And  all  the  spoonies  turn  to  Absaloms  ! 
Nor  this  alone  its  magic  power  displays, 
It  alters  strangely  all  their  works  and  ways  ; 
With  uncouth  words  they  tire  their  tender  lungs, 
The  same  bald  phrases  on  their  hundred  tongues  : 
"  Ever  "  "  The  Ages  "  in  their  page  appear, 
"  Alway  "  the  bedlamite  is  called  a  "  Seer  ; " 
On  every  leaf  the  "  earnest "  sage  may  scan, 
Portentous  bore  !  their  "  many-sided  "  man,  — 
A  weak  eclectic,  groping  vague  and  dim, 
Whose  every  angle  is  a  half -starved  whim, 
Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx, 
Who  rides  a  beetle,  which  he  calls  a  "  Sphinx." 
And    oh,    what    questions    asked     in    clubfoot 

rhyme 
Of  Earth  the  tongueless  and  the  deaf-mute  Time  I 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM  141 

Here  babbling  "  Insight  "  shouts  in  Nature's  ears 
His  last  conundrum  on  the  orbs  and  spheres  ; 
There  Self-inspection  sucks  its  little  thumb, 
With  "  Whence  am  I  ?  "  and  "  Wherefore  did  I 

come  ?  " 

Deluded  infants !  will  they  ever  know 
Some  doubts  must  darken  o'er  the  world  below, 
Though  all  the  Platos  of  the  nursery  trail 
Their  "  clouds  of  glory  "  at  the  go-cart's  tail  ? 
Oh  might  these  couplets  their  attention  claim 
That  gain  their  author  the  Philistine's  name ! 
(A  stubborn  race,  that,  spurning  foreign  law, 
Was  much  belabored  with  an  ass's  jaw.) 

Melodious  Laura!     From  the  sad  retreats 

That  hold  thee,  smothered  with  excess  of  sweets, 

Shade  >f  a  shadow,  spectre  of  a  dream, 

Glance  thy  wan  eye  across  the  Stygian  stream ! 

The  slipshod  dreamer  treads  thy  fragrant  halls, 

The  sophist's  cobwebs  hang  thy  roseate  walls, 

And  o'er  the  crotchets  of  thy  jingling  tunes 

The  bard  of  mystery  scrawls  his  crooked  "  runes." 

Yes,  thou  art  gone,  with  all  the  tuneful  hordes 

That  candied  thoughts  in  amber-colored  words, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  thy  late  abodes 

The  clattering  verse-wright  hammers  Orphic  odes. 

Thou,  soft  as  zephyr,  wast  content  to  fly 

On  the  gilt  pinions  of  a  balmy  sigh  ; 

He,  vast  as  Phoebus  on  his  burning  wheels, 

Would  stride  through  ether  at  Orion's  heels. 

Thy  emblem,  Laura,  was  a  perfume-jar, 

And  thine,  young  Orpheus,  is  a  pewter  star. 


142  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

The  balance  trembles,  —  be  its  verdict  told 
When  the  new  jargon  slumbers  with  the  old ! 


Cease,  playful  goddess !     From  thine  airy  bound 
Drop  like  a  feather  softly  to  the  ground ; 
This  light  bolero  grows  a  ticklish  dance, 
And  there  is  mischief  in  thy  kindling  glance. 
To-morrow  bids  thee,  with  rebuking  frown, 
Change  thy  gauze  tunic  for  a  home-made  gown, 
Too  blest  by  fortune  if  the  passing  day 
Adorn  thy  bosom  with  its  frail  bouquet, 
But  oh,  still  happier  if  the  next  forgets 
Thy  daring  steps  and  dangerous  pirouettes ! 


MEDICAL  POEMS 


THE  MORNING  VISIT 

A  SICK  man's  chamber,  though  it  often  boast 
The  grateful  presence  of  a  literal  toast, 
Can  hardly  claim,  amidst  its  various  wealth, 
The  right  unchallenged  to  propose  a  health  ; 
Yet  though  its  tenant  is  denied  the  feast, 
Friendship  must  launch  his  sentiment  at  least, 
As  prisoned  damsels,  locked  from  lovers'  lips, 
Toss  them  a  kiss  from  off  their  fingers'  tips. 

The  morning  visit,  —  not  till  sickness  falls 
In  the  charmed  circles  of  your  own  safe  walls ; 
Till  fever's  throb  and  pain's  relentless  rack 
Stretch  you  all  helpless  on  your  aching  back ; 
Not  till  you  play  the  patient  in  your  turn, 
The  morning  visit's  mystery  shall  you  learn. 

'T  is  a  small  matter  in  your  neighbor's  case, 
To  charge  your  fee  for  showing  him  your  face ; 
You  skip  up-stairs,  inquire,  inspect,  and  touch, 
Prescribe,  take  leave,  and  off  to  twenty  such. 

But  when  at  length,  by  fate's  transferred  decree, 
The  visitor  becomes  the  visitee, 


144  MEDICAL  POEMS 

Oh,  then,  indeed,  it  pulls  another  string ; 

Your  ox  is  gored,  and  that 's  a  different  thing! 

Your  friend  is  sick :  phlegmatic  as  a  Turk, 

You  write  your  recipe  and  let  it  work ; 

Not  yours  to  stand  the  shiver  and  the  frown, 

And  sometimes  worse,  with  which  your  draught 

goes  down. 

Calm  as  a  clock  your  knowing  hand  directs, 
Rhei,  jalapce  ana  grana  sex, 
Or  traces  on  some  tender  missive's  back, 
Scrupulos  duos  pulveris  ipecac  ; 
And  leaves  your  patient  to  his  qualms  and  gripes, 
Cool  as  a  sportsman  banging  at  his  snipes. 
But  change  the  time,  the  person,  and  the  place, 
And  be  yourself  "  the  interesting  case," 
You  '11  gain  some  knowledge  which  it 's  well  to 

learn ; 

In  future  practice  it  may  serve  your  turn. 
Leeches,  for  instance,  —  pleasing  creatures  quite  ; 
Try  them,  —  and  bless  you,  —  don't  you  find  they 

bite? 

You  raise  a  blister  for  the  smallest  cause, 
But  be  yourself  the  sitter  whom  it  draws, 
And  trust  my  statement,  you  will  not  deny 
The  worst  of  draughtsmen  is  your  Spanish  fly ! 
It 's  mighty  easy  ordering  when  you  please, 
Infusi  sennce  capiat  uncias  tres  ; 
It 's  mighty  different  when  you  quackle  down 
Your  own  three  ounces  of  the  liquid  brown. 
Pihda,  pulvis,  —  pleasant  words  enough, 
When  other  throats  receive  the  shocking  stuff; 
But  oh,  what  flattery  can  disguise  the  groan 


THE  MORNING  VISIT  145 

That  meets  the  gulp  which  sends  it  through  your 

own! 

Be  gentle,  then,  though  Art's  unsparing  rules 
Give  you  the  handling  of  her  sharpest  tools ; 
Use  them  not  rashly,  —  sickness  is  enough ; 
Be  always  "  ready,"  but  be  never  "  rough." 

Of  all  the  ills  that  suffering  man  endures, 
The  largest  fraction  liberal  Nature  cures ; 
Of  those  remaining,  't  is  the  smallest  part 
Yields  to  the  efforts  of  judicious  Art ; 
But  simple  Kindness,  kneeling  by  the  bed 
To  shift  the  pillow  for  the  sick  man's  head, 
Give  the  fresh  draught  to  cool  the  lips  that  burn, 
Fan  the  hot  brow,  the  weary  frame  to  turn,  — 
Kindness,  untutored  by  our  grave  M.  D.'s, 
But  Natvire's  graduate,  when  she  schools  to  please, 
Wins  back  more  sufferers  with  her  voice  and  smile 
Than  all  the  trumpery  in  the  druggist's  pile. 

Once  more,  be  quiet :  coming  up  the  stair, 
Don't  be  a  plantigrade,  a  human  bear, 
But,  stealing  softly  on  the  silent  toe, 
Reach  the  sick  chamber  ere  you  're  heard  below. 
Whatever  changes  there  may  greet  your  eyes, 
Let  not  your  looks  proclaim  the  least  surprise ; 
It 's  not  your  business  by  your  face  to  show 
All  that  your  patient  does  not  want  to  know ; 
Nay,  use  your  optics  with  considerate  care, 
And  don't  abuse  your  privilege  to  stare. 
But  if  your  eyes  may  probe  him  overmuch, 
Beware  still  further  how  you  rudely  touch  ; 


146  MEDICAL   POEMS 

Don't  clutch  his  carpus  in  your  icy  fist, 

But  warm  your  fingers  ere  you  take  the  wrist. 

If  the  poor  victim  needs  must  be  percussed, 

Don't  make  an  anvil  of  his  aching  bust ; 

(Doctors  exist  within  a  hundred  miles 

Who  thump  a  thorax  as  they  'd  hammer  piles ;) 

If  you  must  listen  to  his  doubtful  chest, 

Catch  the  essentials,  and  ignore  the  rest. 

Spare  him ;  the  sufferer  wants  of  you  and  art 

A  track  to  steer  by,  not  a  finished  chart. 

So  of  your  questions  :  don't  in  mercy  try 

To  pump  your  patient  absolutely  dry ; 

He  's  not  a  mollusk  squirming  in  a  dish, 

You  're  not  Agassiz,  and  he  's  not  a  fish. 

And  last,  not  least,  in  each  perplexing  case, 
Learn  the  sweet  magic  of  a  cheerful  face  ; 
Not  always  smiling,  but  at  least  serene, 
When  grief  and  anguish  cloud  the  anxious  scene. 
Each  look,  each  movement,  every  word  and  tone, 
Should  tell  your  patient  you  are  all  his  own ; 
Not  the  mere  artist,  purchased  to  attend, 
But  the  warm,  ready,  self -forgetting  friend, 
Whose  genial  visit  in  itself  combines 
The  best  of  cordials,  tonics,  anodynes. 

Such  is  the  visit  that  from  day  to  day 
Sheds  o'er  my  chamber  its  benignant  ray. 
I  give  his  health,  who  never  cared  to  claim 
Her  babbling  homage  from  the  tongue  of  Fame ; 
Unmoved  by  praise,  he  stands  by  all  confest, 
The  truest,  noblest,  wisest,  kindest,  best. 
1849. 


THE   TWO  ARMIES  147 


THE  TWO  ARMIES 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — • 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 

With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 
Cabn  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 

That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave  ; 
Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 

"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade ; 

At  Honor's  trumpet-call, 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry  ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 

Each  answers,  "  Here  am  I !  " 


148  MEDICAL  POEMS 

For  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder's  marble  piles, 
The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 

Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 

That  floods  the  lonely  graves 
When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 

In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Thojigh  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  • — 

While  Valor's  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 
To  sit  beside  the  Throne ! 


THE   STETHOSCOPE  SONG 

A    PROFESSIONAL   BALLAD 

THERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  stethoscope  nice  and  new, 

All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished  down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG  149 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawly 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size,\ 

Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 

The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and  long ; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 


Some  said,  that  his  liver  was  shprir^f  5«7e,l 
And  some  that  his  hegpfrwis  over  size,! 

While  some  kept^irgmng,  -all  the  while, 

He  wjyysgBifimed  with  tubercles  up  to  his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause  ; 

Said  he,  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 


since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 

ToSxplore  his  chest  it  may  be  well  ;| 

For  if  he  should  die-and  it  were  not  done, 

You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 
And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear  ; 


150  MEDICAL  POEMS 

Mon  Dieu  !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 
Why,  here  is  a  sound  that  's  mighty  queer  1 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 

Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive ! 
Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear  ; 

Amphoric  buzzing^  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side. 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out,  — 

They  tapped  the  patient ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  aviate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  loo^,«actremely  glum  ; 
They  sai^tMt  rattles^wzre  made  for  boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a  hum. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 
And  what  was  the  matter  none 'did  know:  i 

Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was  quick; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row ; 

She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was  at, 
To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

~ '    ' . 

Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz : 

Oh  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt ; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG  151 

The  bruit  de  rdpe  and  the  bruit  de  scie 
And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 
If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find ! 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  scjuads  of  twenty  ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 

And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "  sighs  "  and  "  skies," 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered  rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 
On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and  coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more  ; 
So  over  all  their  chests  he  found' 

The  rule  sifflant  and  the  rale  sonore. 

M  *j  w1 

He  shook  his  head.     There 's  grave  disease,  — 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die ; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men 


152  MEDICAL  POEMS 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  §ore. 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise 
That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 
But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 

Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young  man, 
By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM 

THE    STABILITY    OF   SCIENCE 

THE  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  in  the  storms, 
On  some  tall  lighthouse  dash  their  little  forms, 
And  the  rude  granite  scatters  for  their  pains 
Those  small  deposits  that  were  meant  for  brains. 
Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief  done  ; 
Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze,  — 
Nay,  shines,  all  radiance,  o'er  the  scattered  fleet 
Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  A   MEDICAL  POEM     153 

I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  disclaims 
To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of  their  doom,  ye  simple,  and  beware  ! 

See  where  aloft  its  hoary  forehead  rears 
The  towering  pride  of  twice  a  thousand  years ! 
Far,  far  below  the  vast  incumbent  pile 
Sleeps  the  gray  rock  from  art's  ^Egean  isle 
Its  massive  courses,  circling  as  they  rise, 
Swell  from  the  waves  to  mingle  with  the  skies ; 
There  every  quarry  lends  its  marble  spoil, 
And  clustering  ages  blend  their  common  toil ; 
The  Greek,  the  Roman,  reared  its  ancient  walls, 
The  silent  Arab  arched  its  mystic  halls  ; 
In  that  fair  niche,  by  countless  billows  laved, 
Trace  the  deep  lines  that  Sydenham  engraved  ; 
On  yon  broad   front  that   breasts   the   changing 

swell, 

Mark  where  the  ponderous  sledge  of  Hunter  fell ; 
By  that  square  buttress  look  where  Louis  stands, 
The  stone  yet  warm  from  his  uplifted  hands  ; 
And  say,  O  Science,  shall  thy  life-blood  freeze, 
When  fluttering  folly  flaps  on  walls  like  these  ? 

A  PORTRAIT 

Thoughtful  in  youth,  but  not  austere  in  age ; 
Calm,  but  not  cold,  and  cheerful  though  a  sage ; 
Too  true  to  flatter  and  too  kind  to  sneer, 
And  only  just  when  seemingly  severe ; 
So  gently  blending  courtesy  and  art 
That  wisdom's  lips  seemed  borrowing  friendship's 
heart. 


154  MEDICAL  POEMS 

Taught  by  the  sorrows  that  his  age  had  known 
In  others'  trials  to  forget  his  own, 
As  hour  by  hour  his  lengthened  day  declined, 
A  sweeter  radiance  lingered  o'er  his  mind. 
Cold  were  the  lips  that  spoke  his  early  praise, 
And  hushed  the  voices  of  his  morning  days, 
Yet  the  same  accents  dwelt  on  every  tongue, 
And  love  renewing  kept  him  ever  young. 

A  SENTIMENT 

€O  /St'os  /3paxvs,  —  life  is  but  a  song ; 
*H  rexv-r)  pu-Kpri,  —  art  is  wondrous  long  •, 
Yet  to  the  wise  her  paths  are  ever  fair, 
And   Patience   smiles,   though   Genius   may  de 
spair. 

Give  us  but  knowledge,  though  by  slow  degrees, 
And  blend  our  toil  with  moments  bright  as  these ; 
Let  Friendship's  accents  cheer  our  doubtful  way, 
And  Love's  pure  planet  lend  its  guiding  ray,  — 
Our  tardy  Art  snail  wear  an  angel's  wings, 
And  life  shall  lengthen  with  the  joy  it  brings ! 


A  POEM 

FOR  THE   MEETING   OF  THE  AMERICAN   MEDICAL   ASSOCI 
ATION  AT  NEW  YORK,   MAY  5,  1853 

I  HOLD  a  letter  in  my  hand,  — 

A  flattering  letter,  more 's  the  pity,  — 

By  some  contriving  junto  planned, 
And  signed  per  order  of  Committee. 


A   POEM  155 

It  touches  every  tenderest  spot,  — 

My  patriotic  predilections, 
My  well-known  —  something — don't  ask  what, — 

My  poor  old  songs,  my  kind  affections. 

They  make  a  feast  on  Thursday  next, 

And  hope  to  make  the  feasters  merry ; 
They  own  they  're  something  more  perplexed 

For  poets  than  for  port  and  sherry. 
They  want  the  men  of  —  (word  torn  out)  ; 

Our  friends  will  come  with  anxious  faces, 
(To  see  our  blankets  off,  no  doubt, 

And  trot  us  out  and  show  our  paces.) 

They  hint  that  papers  by  the  score 

Are  rather  musty  kind  of  rations,  — 
They  don't  exactly  mean  a  bore, 

But  only  trying  to  the  patience ; 
That  such  as  —  you  know  who  I  mean  — 

Distinguished  for  their  —  what  d'  ye  call  'em — 
Should  bring  the  dews  of  Hippocrene 

To  sprinkle  on  the  faces  solemn. 

—  The  same  old  story  :  that 's  the  chaff 

To  catch  the  birds  that  sing  the  ditties ; 
Upon  my  soul,  it  makes  me  laugh 

To  read  these  letters  from  Committees  ! 
They  're  all  so  loving  and  so  fair,  — 

All  for  your  sake  such  kind  compunction  ; 
'T  would  save  your  carriage  half  its  wear 

To  touch  its  wheels  with  such  an  unction  ! 


156  MEDICAL   POEMS 

Why,  who  am  I,  to  lift  me  here 

And  beg  such  learned  folk  to  listen, 
To  ask  a  smile,  or  coax  a  tear 

Beneath  these  stoic  lids  to  glisten  ? 
As  well  might  some  arterial  thread 

Ask  the  whole  frame  to  feel  it  gushing, 
While  throbbing  fierce  from  heel  to  head 

The  vast  aortic  tide  was  rushing. 

As  well  some  hair-like  nerve  might  strain 

To  set  its  special  streamlet  going, 
While  through  the  myriad-channelled  brain 

The  burning  flood  of  thought  was  flowing ; 
Or  trembling  fibre  strive  to  keep 

The  springing  haunches  gathered  shorter, 
While  the  scourged  racer,  leap  on  leap, 

Was  stretching  through  the  last  hot  quarter ! 

Ah  me !  you  take  the  bud  that  came 

Self-sown  in  your  poor  garden's  borders, 
And  hand  it  to  the  stately  dame 

That  florists  breed  for,  all  she  orders. 
She  thanks  you,  —  it  was  kindly  meant,  — 

(A  pale  affair,  not  worth  the  keeping,}  — 
Good  morning  ;  and  ycur  bud  is  sent 

To  join  the  tea-leaves  used  for  sweeping. 

Not  always  so,  kind  hearts  and  true,  — 
For  such  I  know  are  round  me  beating; 

Is  not  the  bud  I  offer  you, 

Fresh  gathered  for  the  hour  of  meeting, 


A   POEM  157 

Pale  though  its  outer  leaves  may  be, 
Rose-red  in  all  its  inner  petals  ?  — 

Where  the  warm  life  we  cannot  see  — 
The  life  of  love  that  gave  it  —  settles. 

We  meet  from  regions  far  away, 

Like  rills  from  distant  mountains  streaming ; 
The  sun  is  on  Francisco's  bay, 

O'er  Chesapeake  the  lighthouse  gleaming; 
While  summer  girds  the  still  bayou 

In  chains  of  bloom,  her  bridal  token, 
Monadnock  sees  the  sky  grow  blue, 

His  crystal  bracelet  yet  unbroken. 

Yet  Nature  bears  the  selfsame  heart 

Beneath  her  russet-mantled  bosom 
As  where,  with  burning  lips  apart, 

She  breathes  and  white  magnolias  blossom ; 
The  selfsame  founts  her  chalice  fill 

With  showery  sunlight  running  over, 
On  fiery  plain  and  frozen  hill, 

On  myrtle-beds  and  fields  of  clover. 

I  give  you  Home  !  its  crossing  lines 

United  in  one  golden  suture, 
And  showing  every  day  that  shines 

The  present  growing  to  the  future,  — 
A  flag  that  bears  a  hundred  stars 

In  one  bright  ring,  with  love  for  centre, 
Fenced  round  with  white  and  crimson  bars 

No  prowling  treason  dares  to  enter ! 


158  MEDICAL   POEMS 

O  brothers,  home  may  be  a  word 

To  make  affection's  living  treasure, 
The  wave  an  angel  might  have  stirred, 

A  stagnant  pool  of  selfish  pleasure  ; 
HOME  !  It  is  where  the  day-star  springs 

And  where  the  evening  sun  reposes, 
Where'er  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings, 

From  northern  pines  to  southern  roses  1 


A  SENTIMENT 

A  TRIPLE  health  to  Friendship,  Science,  Art, 
From  heads  and  hands  that  own  a  common  heart ! 
Each  in  its  turn  the  others'  willing  slave, 
Each  in  its  season  strong  to  heal  and  save. 

Friendship's  blind  service,  in  the  hour  of  need, 
Wipes  the  pale  face,  and  lets  the  victim  bleed. 
Science  must  stop  to  reason  and  explain  ; 
ART  claps  his  finger  on  the  streaming  vein. 

But  Art's  brief  memory  fails  the  hand  at  last ; 
Then  SCIENCE  lifts  the  flambeau  of  the  past. 
When  both  their  equal  impotence  deplore, 
When  Learning  sighs,  and  Skill  can  do  no  more, 
The  tear  of  FRIENDSHIP  pours  its  heavenly  balm, 
And  soothes  the  pang  no  anodyne  may  calm  I 
May  1,  1855. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.  159 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D. 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  PRESCRIPTION  TAKEN  BY  THE  MAS 
SACHUSETTS  MEDICAL  SOCIETY,  AX  THEIR  MEETING 
HELD  MAY  25,  1870 

CANTO  FIRST 

OLD  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  a  grandson,  Eip, 
Of  the  paternal  block  a  genuine  chip,  — 
A  lazy,  sleepy,  curious  kind  of  chap ; 
He,  like  his  grandsire,  took  a  mighty  nap, 
Whereof  the  story  I  propose  to  tell 
In  two  brief  cantos,  if  you  listen  well. 

The  times  were  hard  when  Rip  to  manhood  grew; 
They  always  will  be  when  there  's  work  to  do. 
He  tried  at  farming,  —  found  it  rather  slow,  — 
And  then  at  teaching  —  what  he  did  n't  know  j 
Then  took  to  hanging  round  the  tavern  bars, 
To  frequent  toddies  and  long-nine  cigars, 
Till  Dame  Van  Winkle,  out  of  patience,  vexed 
With  preaching  homilies,  having  for  their  text 
A  mop,  a  broomstick,  aught  that  might  avail 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale, 
Exclaimed,  "  I  have  it !     Now,  then,  Mr.  V. ! 
He 's  good  for  something, —  make  him  an  M.  D.  I " 

The  die  was  cast ;  the  youngster  was  content ; 
They  packed  his  shirts  and  stockings,  and  he  went. 
How  hard  he  studied  it  were  vain  to  tell ; 
He  drowsed  through  Wistar,  nodded  over  Bell, 


160  MEDICAL  POEMS 

Slept  sound  with  Cooper,  snored  aloud  on  Good ; 
Heard  heaps  of  lectures,  —  doubtless  understood,  — 
A  constant  listener,  for  he  did  not  fail 
To  carve  his  name  on  every  bench  and  rail. 

Months  grew  to  years  ;  at  last  he  counted  three, 
And  Rip  Van  Winkle  found  himself  M.  D. 
Illustrious  title  !  in  a  gilded  frame 
He  set  the  sheepskin  with  his  Latin  name, 
RIPUM  VAN  WINKLUM,  QUEM  we  —  SCIMUS  —  know 
IDONEUM  ESSE  —  to  do  so  and  so. 
He  hired  an  office  ;  soon  its  walls  displayed 
His  new  diploma  and  his  stock  in  trade, 
A  mighty  arsenal  to  subdue  disease, 
Of  various  names,  whereof  I  mention  these  : 
Lancets  and  bougies,  great  and  little  squirt, 
Rhubarb  and  Senna,  Snakeroot,  Thoroughwort, 
Ant.  Tart.,  Vin.  Colch.,   Pil.  Cochite,  and  Black 

Drop, 

Tinctures  of  Opium,  Gentian,  Henbane,  Hop, 
Pulv.  Ipecacuanha?,  which  for  lack 
Of  breath  to  utter  men  call  Ipecac, 
Camphor  and  Kino,  Turpentine,  Tolu, 
Cubebs,  "  Copeevy,"  Vitriol, — white  and  blue, — 
Fennel  and  Flaxseed,  Slippery  Elm  and  Squill, 
And  roots  of  Sassafras,  and  "  Sassaf 'rill," 
Brandy, — for  colics, — Pinkroot,  death  on  worms, — 
Valerian,  calmer  of  hysteric  squirms, 
Musk,  Assafoetida,  the  resinous  gum 
Named  from  its  odor,  —  well,  it  does  smell  some,  — 
Jalap,  that  works  not  wiselv.  but  too  well, 
Ten  pounds  of  Bark  and  six  of  Calomel. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,  M.  D.  161 

For  outward  griefs  he  had  an  ample  store, 
Some  twenty  jars  and  gallipots,  or  more  : 
Ceratum  simplex  —  housewives  oft  compile 
The  same  at  home,  and  call  it  "  wax  and  ile  ;  " 
Unguentum  resinosum  —  change  its  name, 
The  "  drawing  salve  "  of  many  an  ancient  dame ; 
Argenti  Nitras,  also  Spanish  flies, 
Whose  virtue  makes  the  water-bladders  rise  — 
(Some  say  that  spread  upon  a  toper's  skin 
They  draw  no  water,  only  rum  or  gin)  ; 
Leeches,  sweet  vermin  !  don't  they  charm  the  sick  ? 
And  Sticking-plaster  —  how  it  hates  to  stick ! 
Emplastrum  Ferri  —  ditto  Picis,  Pitch  ; 
Washes  and  Powders,  Brimstone  for  the  —  which, 
Scabies  or  Psora,  is  thy  chosen  name 
Since  Hahnemann's  goose-quill  scratched  thee  into 

fame, 

Proved  thee  the  source  of  every  nameless  ill, 
Whose  sole  specific  is  a  moonshine  pill, 
Till  saucy  Science,  with  a  quiet  grin, 
Held  up  the  Acarus,  crawling  on  a  pin  ? 
—  Mountains  have  labored  and  have  brought  forth 

mice : 

The  Dutchman's  theory  hatched  a  brood  of  —  twice 
I  've  wellnigh  said  them  —  words  unfitting  quite 
For  these  fair  precincts  and  for  ears  polite. 

The  surest  foot  may  chance  at  last  to  slip, 
And  so  at  length  it  proved  with  Doctor  Rip. 
One  full-sized  bottle  stood  upon  the  shelf, 
Which  held  the  medicine  that  he  took  himself  ; 
Whate'er  the  reason,  it  must  be  confessed 
He  filled  that  bottle  oftener  than  the  rest : 


162  MEDICAL  POEMS 

What  drug  it  held  I  don't  presume  to  know  — 
The  gilded  label  said  "  Elixir  Pro." 

One  day  the  Doctor  found  the  bottle  full, 
And,  being  thirsty,  took  a  vigorous  pull, 
Put  back  the  "  Elixir  "  where  't  was  always  found, 
And  had  old  Dobbin  saddled  and  brought  round. 
—  You  know  those  old-time  rhubarb-colored  nags 
That  carried  Doctors  and  their  saddle-bags  ; 
Sagacious  beasts  !  they  stopped  at  every  place 
Where  blinds  were  shut  —  knew  every  patient's 


Looked  up  and  thought  —  The  baby  's  in  a  fit  — 
That  won't  last  long  —  he  '11  soon  be  through  with 

it; 

But  shook  their  heads  before  the  knockered  door 
Where  some  old  lady  told  the  story  o'er 
Whose  endless  stream  of  tribulation  flows 
For  gastric  griefs  and  peristaltic  woes. 

What  jack-o'-lantern  led  him  from  his  way, 
And  where  it  led  him,  it  were  hard  to  say  ; 
Enough  that  wandering  many  a  weary  mile 
Through  paths  the  mountain  sheep  trod  single  file, 
O'ercome  by  feelings  such  as  patients  know 
Who  dose  too  freely  with  "  Elixir  Pro.," 
He  tumbl  —  dismounted,  slightly  in  a  heap, 
And  lay,  promiscuous,  lapped  in  balmy  sleep. 

Night  followed  night,  and  day  succeeded  day, 
But  snoring  still  the  slumbering  Doctor  lay. 
Poor  Dobbin,  starving,  thought  upon  his  stall, 
And  straggled  homeward,  saddle-bags  and  all. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,  M.  D.  163 

The  village  people  hunted  all  around, 

But  Rip  was  missing,  —  never  could  be  found. 

"  Drownded,"  they  guessed  ;  —  for  more  than  half 

a  year 

The  pouts  and  eels  did  taste  uncommon  queer ; 
Some  said  of  apple-brandy  —  other  some 
Found  a  strong  flavor  of  New  England  rum. 

Why  can't  a  fellow  hear  the  fine  things  said 
About  a  fellow  when  a  fellow  's  dead  ? 
The  best  of  doctors  —  so  the  press  declared  — 
A  public  blessing  while  his  life  was  spared, 
True  to  his  country,  bounteous  to  the  poor, 
In  all  things  temperate,  sober,  just,  and  pure ; 
The  best  of  husbands  !  echoed  Mrs.  Van, 
And  set  her  cap  to  catch  another  man. 

So  ends  this  Canto  —  if  it 's  quantum  Buff., 
We  '11  just  stop  here  and  say  we  've  had  enough, 
And  leave  poor  Rip  to  sleep  for  thirty  years  ; 
I  grind  the  organ  —  if  you  lend  your  ears 
To  hear  my  second  Canto,  after  that 
We  '11  send  around  the  monkey  with  the  hat. 

CANTO    SECOND 

So  thirty  years  had  passed  —  but  not  a  word 
In  all  that  time  of  Rip  was  ever  heard ; 
The  world  wagged  on  —  it  never  does  go  back  — 
The  widow  Van  was  now  the  widow  Mac  — 
France  was  an  Empire  —  Andrew  J.  was  dead, 
And  Abraham  L.  was  reigning  in  his  stead. 
Four  murderous  years  had  passed  in  savage  strife, 
Yet  still  the  rebel  held  his  bloodv  knife. 


164  MEDICAL   POEMS 

—  At  last  one  morning  —  who  forgets  the  day 
When  the  black  cloud  of  war  dissolved  away  ?  — 
The  joyous  tidings  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Rebellion  done  for !  Grant  has  captured  Lee ! 
Up  every  flagstaff  sprang  the  Stars  and  Stripes  — 
Out  rushed  the  Extras  wild  with  mammoth  types  — 
Down  went   the   laborer's    hod,   the    school-boy's 

book  — 

"  Hooraw !  "  he  cried,  "  the  rebel  army  's  took !  " 
Ah  !  what  a  time !  the  folks  all  mad  with  joy : 
Each  fond,  pale  mother  thinking  of  her  boy  ; 
Old  gray-haired  fathers  meeting  —  "  Have  —  you 

—  heard?" 

And  then  a  choke  —  and  not  another  word  ; 
Sisters  all  smiling  —  maidens,  not  less  dear, 
In  trembling  poise  between  a  smile  and  tear ; 
Poor    Bridget    thinking    how    she  '11    stuff    the 

plums 

In  that  big  cake  for  Johnny  when  he  comes  ; 
Cripples  afoot ;  rheumatics  on  the  jump  ; 
Old  girls  so  loving  they  could  hug  the  pump ; 
Guns  going  bang !  from  every  fort  and  ship  ; 
They  banged  so  loud  at  last  they  wakened  Rip. 

I  spare  the  picture,  how  a  man  appears 
Who  's  been  asleep  a  score  or  two  of  years ; 
You  all  have  seen  it  to  perfection  done 
By  Joe  Van  Wink —  I  mean  Rip  Jefferson. 
Well,  so  it  was  ;  old  Rip  at  last  came  back, 
Claimed  his  old  wife  —  the  present  widow  Mac  — 
Had  his  old  sign  regilded,  and  began 
To  practise  physic  on  the  same  old  plan. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,  M.  D.  165 

Some  weeks  went  by  —  it  was  not  long  to  wait  — 
And  "  please  to  call "  grew  frequent  on  the  slate. 
He  had,  in  fact,  an  ancient,  mildewed  air, 
A  long  gray  beard,  a  plenteous  lack  of  hair,  — 
The  musty  look  that  always  recommends 
Your  good  old  Doctor  to  his  ailing  friends. 
—  Talk  of  your  science !  after  all  is  said 
There  's  nothing  like  a  bare  and  shiny  head ; 
Age  lends  the  graces  that  are  sure  to  please  ; 
Folks  want  their  Doctors  mouldy,  like  their  cheese. 

So  Rip  began  to  look  at  people's  tongues 
And  thump  their  briskets  (called  it  "  sound  their 

lungs  "), 

Brushed  up  his  knowledge  smartly  as  he  could, 
Read  in  old  Cullen  and  in  Doctor  Good. 
The  town  was  healthy  ;  for  a  month  or  two 
He  gave  the  sexton  little  work  to  do. 

About  the  time  when  dog-day  heats  begin, 
The  summer's  usual  maladies  set  in  ; 
With  autumn  evenings  dysentery  came, 
And  dusky  typhoid  lit  his  smouldering  flame ; 
The  blacksmith  ailed,  the  carpenter  was  down, 
And  half  the  children  sickened  in  the  town. 
The  sexton's  face  grew  shorter  than  before  — 
The  sexton's  wife  a  brand-new  bonnet  wore  — 
Things  looked  quite  serious  —  Death  had  got  a  grip 
On  old  and  young,  in  spite  of  Doctor  Rip. 

And  now  the  Squire  was  taken  with  a  chill  — 
Wife  gave  "  hot-drops  "  —  at  night  an  Indian  pill ; 
Next  morning,  feverish  —  bedtime,  getting  worse  — 


166  MEDICAL   POEMS 

Out  of  his  head  —  began  to  rave  and  curse  ; 
The  Doctor  sent  for --double  quick  he  came: 
Ant.  Tart.  gran,  duo,  and  repeat  the  same 
If  no  et  cetera.     Third  day  —  nothing  new ; 
Percussed  his  thorax  till  't  was  black  and  blue  — 
Lung-fever  threatening  —  something  of  the  sort  — 
Out  with  the  lancet  —  let  him  bleed  —  a  quart  — 
Ten  leeches  next  —  then  blisters  to  his  side  ; 
Ten  grains  of  calomel ;  just  then  he  died. 

The  Deacon  next  required  the  Doctor's  care  — 
Took  cold  by  sitting  in  a  draught  of  air  — 
Pains  in  the  back,  but  what  the  matter  is 
Not  quite  so  clear,  —  wife  calls  it  "  rheumatiz." 
Rubs   back   with   flannel  —  gives   him   something 

hot  — 

"  Ah  !  "  says  the  Deacon,  "  that  goes  nigh  the  spot." 
Next  day  a  rigor  —  "  Run,  my  little  man, 
And  say  the  Deacon  sends  for  Doctor  Van." 
The  Doctor  came  —  percussion  as  before, 
Thumping  and  banging  till  his  ribs  were  sore  — 
"  Right   side    the  flattest "  —  then  more  vigorous 

raps  — 

"  Fever  —  that 's  certain  —  pleurisy,  perhaps. 
A  quart  of  blood  will  ease  the  pain,  no  doubt, 
Ten  leeches  next  will  help  to  suck  it  out, 
Then  clap  a  blister  on  the  painful  part  — 
But  first  two  grains  of  Antimonium  Tart. 
Last  with  a  dose  of  cleansing  calomel 
Unload  the  portal  system  —  (that  sounds  well !)  " 

But  when  the  selfsame  remedies  were  tried, 
As  all  the  village  knew,  the  Squire  had  died  ; 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE,  M.  D.  167 

The  neighbors  hinted.     This  will  never  do  ; 

He  's  killed  the  Squire — he  '11  kill  the  Deacon  too." 

Now  when  a  doctor's  patients  are  perplexed, 
A  consultation  comes  in  order  next  — 
You  know  what  that  is  ?     In  a  certain  place 
Meet  certain  doctors  to  discuss  a  case 
And  other  matters,  such  as  weather,  crops, 
Potatoes,  pumpkins,  lager-beer,  and  hops. 
For  what 's  the  use  ?  —  there  's  little  to  be  said, 
Nine  times  in  ten  your  man  's  as  good  as  dead ; 
At  best  a  talk  (the  secret  to  disclose) 
Where  three  men  guess  and  sometimes  one  man 
knows. 

The  counsel  summoned  came  without  delay  — 
Young    Doctor    Green    and    shrewd   old   Doctor 

Gray  — 
They   heard   the  stoiy  —  "  Bleed  !  "   says   Doctor 

Green, 
"  That 's  downright  murder !  cut  his  throat,  you 

mean! 

Leeches  !  the  reptiles  !     Why,  for  pity's  sake, 
Not  try  an  adder  or  a  rattlesnake  ? 
Blisters !  Why  bless  you,  they  're  against  the  law  — 
It 's  rank  assault  and  battery  if  they  draw ! 
Tartrate  of  Antimony !  shade  of  Luke, 
Stomachs  turn  pale  at  thought  of  such  rebuke ! 
The  portal  system  !     What 's  the  man  about  ? 
Unload  your  nonsense  !     Calomel 's  played  out ! 
You  've  been  asleep  —  you  'd  better  sleep  away 
Till  some  one  calls  you." 


168  MEDICAL   POEMS 

"  Stop  !  "  says  Doctor  Gray  — - 
"  The  story  is  you  slept  for  thirty  years  ; 
With  brother  Green,  I  own  that  it  appears 
You  must  have  slumbered  most  amazing  sound ; 
But  sleep  once  more  till  thirty  years  come  round, 
You"ll  find  the  lancet  in  its  honored  place, 
Leeches  and  blisters  rescued  from  disgrace, 
Your  drugs  redeemed  from  fashion's  passing  scorn, 
And  counted  safe  to  give  to  babes  unborn." 

Poor  sleepy  Eip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D., 
A  puzzled,  serious,  saddened  man  was  he  ; 
Home  from  the  Deacon's  house  he  plodded  slow 
And  filled  one  bumper  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 
"  Good-by,"  he  faltered,  "  Mrs.  Van,  my  dear ! 
I  'm  going  to  sleep,  but  wake  me  once  a  year ; 
I  don't  like  bleaching  in  the  frost  and  dew, 
I  '11  take  the  barn,  if  all  the  same  to  you. 
Just  once  a  year  —  remember !  no  mistake  ! 
Cry,  '  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to  wake ! ' 
Watch  for  the  week  in  May  when  laylocks  blow, 
For  then  the  Doctors  meet,  and  I  must  go." 

Just  once  a  year  the  Doctor's  worthy  dame 
Goes  to  the  barn  and  shouts  her  husband's  name ; 
"  Come,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  (giving  him  a  shake) 
"  Rip  !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  time  for  you  to  wake  ! 
Laylocks  in  blossom  !  't  is  the  month  of  May  — 
The  Doctors'  meeting  is  this  blessed  day, 
And   come   what   will,  you   know   I   heard   you 

swear 
You  'd  never  miss  it,  but  be  always  there !  " 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,  M.D.  169 

And  so  it  is,  as  every  year  comes  round 
Old  Rip  Van  Winkle  here  is  always  found. 
You  '11  quickly  know  him  by  his  mildewed  air, 
The  hayseed  sprinkled  through  his  scanty  hair, 
The  lichens  growing  on  his  rusty  suit  — 
I  've  seen  a  toadstool  sprouting  on  his  boot  — 
—  Who  says  I  lie  ?     Does  any  man  presume  ?  — 
Toadstool  ?  No  matter  —  call  it  a  mushroom. 
Where  is  his  seat  ?  He  moves  it  every  year  ; 
But  look,  you  '11  find  him,  —  he  is  always  here,  — 
Perhaps  you  '11  track  him  by  a  whiff  you  know  — 
A  certain  flavor  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

Now,  then,  I  give  you  —  as  you  seem  to  think 
We  can  give  toasts  without  a  drop  to  drink  — 
Health  to  the  mighty  sleeper,  —  long  live  he  1 
Our  brother  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D.  I 


SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

1849-1861 


PROLOGUE 

THE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 
Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets  bray ; 
Song  is  thin  air  ;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 
Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching  deeds, 
Following  the  mighty  van  that  Freedom  leads, 
Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day ! 
The  crimsoned  pavement  where  a  hero  bleeds 
Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 
Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts,  are  better 

worth 

Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes  dumb. 
Hark !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 
Rolls  o'er  the  prairied  West,  the  rock-bound  North  : 
The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 
Its  shadowy  palms.     Behold,  we  come,  —  we  come  ! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.     Such  toys  as  these 
Were  not  unsought  for,  as,  in  languid  dreams, 
We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 
And  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 
It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 
Dropping  untimely,  while  the  sudden  gleams 


AGNES  171 

Glare  from  the  mustering  clouds  whose  blackness 

seems 

Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the  trees. 
Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 
These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and  go  — 
Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  so  slow  — 
Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome  past 
May  flutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets,  cast 
On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 
May  1,  1861. 

AGNES 

The  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and  Agnes  Surriage  is  told  in 
the  ballad  with  a  very  strict  adhesion  to  the  facts.  These  were 
obtained  from  information  afforded  me  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Webster, 
of  Hopkinton,  in  company  with  whom  I  visited  the  Frankland 
Mansion  in  that  town,  then  standing1;  from  a  very  interesting 
Memoir,  by  the  Rev.  Elias  Nason,  of  Medf ord  ;  and  from  the  man 
uscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or  more  properly  Sir  Charles  Henry 
Frankland,  now  in  the  library  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old  Julia  was  living,  and  on 
our  return  we  called  at  the  house  where  she  resided.1  Her  account 
is  little  more  than  paraphrased  in  the  poem.  If  the  incidents  are 
treated  with  a  certain  liberality  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  part,  the 
essential  fact  that  Agnes  rescued  Sir  Harry  from  the  ruins  after 
the  earthquake,  and  their  subsequent  marriage  as  related,  may  be 
accepted  as  literal  truth.  So  with  regard  to  most  of  the  trifling 
details  which  are  given  ;  they  are  taken  from  the  record. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  Frankland  Mansion  no 
longer  exists.  It  was  accidentally  burned  on  the  23d  of  January, 
1858,  a  year  or  two  after  the  first  sketch  of  this  ballad  was  written. 
A  visit  to  it  was  like  stepping  out  of  the  century  into  the  years 
before  the  Revolution.  A  new  house,  similar  in  plan  and  arrange 
ments  to  the  old  one,  has  been  built  upon  its  site,  and  the  terraces, 
the  clump  of  box,  and  the  lilacs  doubtless  remain  to  bear  witness 
to  the  truth  of  this  story. 

1  She  was  living  June  10,  18C1,  when  this  ballad  was  published. 


172  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

The  story,  which  I  have  told  literally  in  rhyme,  has  been  made 
the  subject  of  a  carefully  studied  and  interesting  romance  by  Mr. 
E.  L.  Bynner. 

PART   FIEST 
THE  KNIGHT 

THE  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true, 

As  all  the  bookmen  know, 
And  pilgrims  who  have  strayed  to  view 

The  wrecks  still  left  to  show. 

The  old,  old  story,  —  fair,  and  young, 
And  fond,  —  and  not  too  wise,  — 

That  matrons  tell,  with  sharpened  tongue, 
To  maids  with  downcast  eyes. 

Ah  !  maidens  err  and  matrons  warn 

Beneath  the  coldest  sky  ; 
Love  lurks  amid  the  tasselled  corn 

As  in  the  bearded  rye  ! 

But  who  would  dream  our  sober  sires 
Had  learned  the  old  world's  ways, 

And  warmed  their  hearths  with  lawless  fires 
In  Shirley's  homespun  days  ? 

'T  is  like  some  poet's  pictured  trance 

His  idle  rhymes  recite,  — 
This  old  New  England-born  romance 

Of  Agnes  and  the  Knight ; 

Yet,  known  to  all  the  country  round, 
Their  home  is  standing  still, 


AGNES  173 

Between  Wachusett's  lonely  mound 
And  Shawmut's  threefold  hill. 

One  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 

One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 
We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 

With  stained  and  warping  floor, 
A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof 

And  bars  its  haughty  door. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 

That  breaks  the  gable  wall ; 
And  lo  !  with  arches  opening  wide, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  hall ! 

'T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 

They  sought  the  forest  shade, 
The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 

The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble-pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 

Far  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 

The  Master's  broad  domain  ; 
With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  hound, 

He  kept  a  goodly  train. 


174  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

And,  all  the  midland  county  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Repaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  fight. 

Nor  less  to  courtly  circles  known 
That  graced  the  three-hilled  town 

With  far-off  splendors  of  the  Throne, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  Crown ; 

Wise  Phipps,  who  held  the  seals  of  state 

For  Shirley  over  sea ; 
Brave  Knowles,  whose  press-gang  moved  of  late 

The  King  Street  mob's  decree  ; 

And  judges  grave,  and  colonels  grand, 

Fair  dames  and  stately  men, 
The  mighty  people  of  the  land, 

The  "  World  "  of  there  and  then. 

'T  was  strange  no  Chloe's  "  beauteous  Form," 

And  "  Eyes'  coslestial  Blew," 
This  Strephon  of  the  West  could  warm, 

No  Nymph  his  Heart  subdue ! 

Perchance  he  wooed  as  gallants  use, 
Whom  fleeting  loves  enchain, 


AGNES  175 

But  still  unfettered,  free  to  choose, 
Would  brook  no  bridle-rein. 

He  saw  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

But  smiled  alike  on  all ; 
No  band  his  roving  foot  might  snare, 

No  ring  his  hand  enthrall. 


PART   SECOND 
THE  MAIDEN 

Why  seeks  the  knight  that  rocky  cape 

Beyond  the  Bay  of  Lynn  ? 
What  chance  his  wayward  course  may  shape 

To  reach  its  village  inn  ? 

No  story  tells  ;  whate'er  we  guess, 

The  past  lies  deaf  and  still, 
But  Fate,  who  rules  to  blight  or  bless, 

Can  lead  us  where  she  will. 

Make  way !  Sir  Harry's  coach  and  four, 
And  liveried  grooms  that  ride  ! 

They  cross  the  ferry,  touch  the  shore 
On  Winnisimmet's  side. 

They  hear  the  wash  on  Chelsea  Beach,  — 

The  level  marsh  they  pass, 
Where  miles  on  miles  the  desert  reach 

Is  rough  with  bitter  grass. 


176  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

The  shining  horses  foam  and  pant, 

And  now  the  smells  begin 
Of  fishy  Swampscott,  salt  Nahant, 

And  leather-scented  Lynn. 

Next,  on  their  left,  the  slender  spires 
And  glittering  vanes  that  crown 

The  home  of  Salem' s  frugal  sires, 
The  old,  witch-haunted  town. 

So  onward,  o'er  the  rugged  way 
That  runs  through  rocks  and  sand, 

Showered  by  the  tempest-driven"  spray, 
From  bays  on  either  hand, 

That  shut  between  their  outstretched  arms 

The  crews  of  Marblehead, 
The  lords  of  ocean's  watery  farms, 

Who  plough  the  waves  for  bread. 

At  last  the  ancient  inn  appears, 

The  spreading  elm  below, 
Whose  flapping  sign  these  fifty  years 

Has  seesawed  to  and  fro. 

How  fair  the  azure  fields  in  sight 

Before  the  low-browed  inn  ! 
The  tumbling  billows  fringe  with  light 

The  crescent  shore  of  Lynn  ; 

Nahant  thrusts  outward  through  the  waves 
Her  arm  of  yellow  sand, 


AGNES  177 

And  breaks  the  roaring  surge  that  braves 
The  gauntlet  on  her  hand ; 

With  eddying  whirl  the  waters  lock 

Yon  treeless  mound  forlorn, 
The  sharp-winged  sea-fowl's  breeding-rock, 

That  fronts  the  Spouting  Horn  ; 

Then  free  the  white-sailed  shallops  glide, 

And  wide  the  ocean  smiles, 
Till,  shoreward  bent,  his  streams  divide 

The  two  bare  Misery  Isles. 

The  master's  silent  signal  stays 

The  wearied  cavalcade ; 
The  coachman  reins  his  smoking  bays 

Beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 

A  gathering  on  the  village  green  1 

The  cocked-hats  crowd  to  see, 
On  legs  in  ancient  velveteen, 

With  buckles  at  the  knee. 

A  clustering  round  the  tavern-door 

Of  square-toed  village  boys, 
Still  wearing,  as  their  grandsires  wore, 

The  old-world  corduroys ! 

A  scampering  at  the  "  Fountain  "  inn, — 

A  rush  of  great  and  small,  — 
With  hurrying  servants'  mingled  din 

And  screaming  matron's  call ! 


178  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done 

They  caught  her  unaware ; 
As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair ; 

Bent  o'er  the  steps,  with  lowliest  mien 

She  knelt,  but  not  to  pray,  — 
Her  little  hands  must  keep  them  clean, 

And  wash  their  stains  away. 

A  foot,  an  ankle,  bare  and  white, 
Her  girlish  shapes  betrayed,  — 
"  Ha !  Nymphs  and  Graces !  "  spoke  the  Knight; 
"  Look  up,  my  beauteous  Maid !  " 

She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud, 

Its  calyx  half  withdrawn,  — 
Her  cheek  on  fire  with  damasked  blood 

Of  girlhood's  glowing  dawn ! 

He  searched  her  features  through  and  through, 

As  royal  lovers  look 
On  lowly  maidens,  when  they  woo 

Without  the  ring  and  book. 

"  Come  hither,  Fair  one !  Here,  my  Sweet ! 

Nay,  prithee,  look  not  down  ! 
Take  this  to  shoe  those  little  feet,"  — 

He  tossed  a  silver  crown. 

A  sudden  paleness  struck  her  brow,  — 
A  swifter  blush  succeeds  ; 


Agnes 


AGNES  179 

It  burns  her  cheek  ;  it  kindles  now 
Beneath  her  golden  beads. 

She  flitted,  but  the  glittering  eye 

Still  sought  the  lovely  face. 
Who  was  she  ?  What,  and  whence  ?  and  why 

Doomed  to  such  menial  place  ? 

A  skipper's  daughter,  —  so  they  said,  — 

Left  orphan  by  the  gale 
That  cost  the  fleet  of  Marblehead 

And  Gloucester  thirty  sail. 

Ah !  many  a  lonely  home  is  found 

Along  the  Essex  shore, 
That  cheered  its  goodman  outward  bound, 

And  sees  his  face  no  more ! 

"  Not  so,"  the  matron  whispered,  —  "  sure 

No  orphan  girl  is  she,  — 
The  Surriage  folk  are  deadly  poor 
Since  Edward  left  the  sea, 

"  And  Mary,  with  her  growing  brood, 

Has  work  enough  to  do 
To  find  the  children  clothes  and  food 
With  Thomas,  John,  and  Hugh. 

"  This  girl  of  Mary's,  growing  tall,  — 

(Just  turned  her  sixteenth  year,)  — 
To  earn  her  bread  and  help  them  all, 
Would  work  as  housemaid  here." 


180  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

So  Agnes,  with  her  golden  beads, 

And  naught  beside  as  dower, 
Grew  at  the  wayside  with  the  weeds, 

Herself  a  garden-flower. 

'T  was  strange,  't  was  sad,  —  so  fresh,  so  fair ! 

Thus  Pity's  voice  began. 
Such  grace  !  an  angel's  shape  and  air ! 

The  half-heard  whisper  ran. 

For  eyes  could  see  in  George's  time, 

As  now  in  later  days, 
And  lips  could  shape,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

The  honeyed  breath  of  praise. 

No  time  to  woo !     The  train  must  go 

Long  ere  the  sun  is  down, 
To  reach,  before  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  many-steepled  town. 

T  is  midnight,  —  street  and  square  are  still; 

Dark  roll  the  whispering  waves 
That  lap  the  piers  beneath  the  hill 

Ridged  thick  with  ancient  graves. 

Ah,  gentle  sleep !  thy  hand  will  smooth 

The  weary  couch  of  pain, 
When  all  thy  poppies  fail  to  soothe 

The  lover's  throbbing  brain  ! 

'T  is  morn,  —  the  orange-mantled  sun 
Breaks  through  the  fading  gray, 


AGNES  181 

And  long  and  loud  the  Castle  gun 
Peals  o'er  the  glistening  bay. 

"  Thank  God  't  is  day !  "     With  eager  eye 

He  hails  the  morning  shine  :  — 
"  If  art  can  win,  or  gold  can  buy, 

The  maiden  shall  be  mine !  " 


PAKT    THIRD 

THE  CONQUEST 

"  Who  saw  this  hussy  when  she  came  ? 

What  is  the  wench,  and  who  ?  " 
They  whisper.     "  Agnes  —  is  her  name  ? 
Pray  what  has  she  to  do  ?  " 

The  housemaids  parley  at  the  gate, 

The  scullions  on  the  stair, 
And  in  the  footmen's  grave  debate 

The  butler  deigns  to  share. 

Black  Dinah,  stolen  when  a  child, 

And  sold  on  Boston  pier, 
Grown  up  in  service,  petted,  spoiled, 

Speaks  in  the  coachman's  ear  : 

"  What,  all  this  household  at  his  will  ? 

And  all  are  yet  too  few  ? 
More  servants,  and  more  servants  still,  — 
This  pert  young  madam  too !  " 


182  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

"  Servant !  fine  servant!  "  laughed  aloud 
The  man  of  coach  and  steeds  ; 

"  She  looks  too  fair,  she  steps  too  proud, 
This  girl  with  golden  beads ! 

*'  I  tell  you,  you  may  fret  and  frown, 

And  call  her  what  you  choose, 

You  '11  find  my  Lady  in  her  gown, 

Your  Mistress  in  her  shoes !  " 

Ah,  gentle  maidens,  free  from  blame, 
God  grant  you  never  know 

The  little  whisper,  loud  with  shame, 
That  makes  the  world  your  foe ! 

Why  tell  the  lordly  flatterer's  art, 
That  won  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

The  fluttering  of  the  frightened  heart, 
The  blush,  the  smile,  the  tear  ? 

Alas !  it  were  the  saddening  tale 
That  every  language  knows,  — 

The  wooing  wind,  the  yielding  sail, 
The  sunbeam  and  the  rose. 

And  now  the  gown  of  sober  stuff 
Has  changed  to  fair  brocade, 

With  broidered  hem,  and  hanging  cuff, 
And  flower  of  silken  braid  ; 

And  clasped  around  her  blanching  wrist 
A  jewelled  bracelet  shines, 


AGNES  183 

Her  flowing  tresses'  massive  twist 
A  glittering  net  confines ; 

And  mingling  with  their  truant  wave 

A  fretted  chain  is  hung ; 
But  ah !  the  gift  her  mother  gave,  — 

Its  beads  are  all  unstrung ! 

Her  place  is  at  the  master's  board, 
Where  none  disputes  her  claim  ; 

She  walks  beside  the  mansion's  lord, 
His  bride  in  all  but  name. 

The  busy  tongues  have  ceased  to  talk, 

Or  speak  in  softened  tone, 
So  gracious  in  her  daily  walk 

The  angel  light  has  shown. 

No  want  that  kindness  may  relieve 

Assails  her  heart  in  vain, 
The  lifting  of  a  ragged  sleeve 

Will  check  her  palfrey's  rein. 

A  thoughtful  calm,  a  quiet  grace 

In  every  movement  shown, 
Reveal  her  moulded  for  the  place 

She  may  not  call  her  own. 

And,  save  that  on  her  youthful  brow 

There  broods  a  shadowy  care, 
No  matron  sealed  with  holy  vow 

In  all  the  land  so  fair  ! 


184  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 


PART   FOURTH 

THE   RESCUE 


A  ship  comes  foaming  up  the  bay, 

Along  the  pier  she  glides  ; 
Before  her  furrow  melts  away, 

A  courier  mounts  and  rides. 

"  Haste,  Haste,  post  Haste ! "  the  letters  bear ; 

"  Sir  Harry  Frankland,  These." 
Sad  news  to  tell  the  loving  pair ! 
The  knight  must  cross  the  seas. 

"  Alas !  we  part !  "  —  the  lips  that  spoke 

Lost  all  their  rosy  red, 
As  when  a  crystal  cup  is  broke, 
And  all  its  wine  is  shed. 

"  Nay,  droop  not  thus,  —  where'er,"  he  cried, 

"  I  go  by  land  or  sea, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  pride, 
Thy  place  is  still  by  me !  " 

Through  town  and  city,  far  and  wide, 
Their  wandering  feet  have  strayed, 

From  Alpine  lake  to  ocean  tide, 
And  cold  Sierra's  shade. 

At  length  they  see  the  waters  gleam 

Amid  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  Lisbon  mirrors  in  the  stream 

Her  belt  of  ancient  towers. 


AGNES  185 

Red  is  the  orange  on  its  bough, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  fling 
O'er  Cintra's  hazel-shaded  brow 

The  flush  of  April's  wing. 

The  streets  are  loud  with  noisy  mirth, 

They  dance  on  every  green ; 
The  morning's  dial  marks  the  birth 

Of  proud  Braganza's  queen. 

At  eve  beneath  their  pictured  dome 

The  gilded  courtiers  throng ; 
The  broad  moidores  have  cheated  Rome 

Of  all  her  lords  of  song. 

Ah !  Lisbon  dreams  not  of  the  day  — 
Pleased  with  her  painted  scenes  — 

When  all  her  towers  shall  slide  away 
As  now  these  canvas  screens  ! 

The  spring  has  passed,  the  summer  fled, 

And  yet  they  linger  still, 
Though  autumn's  rustling  leaves  have  spread 

The  flank  of  Cintra's  hill. 

The  town  has  learned  their  Saxon  name, 

And  touched  their  English  gold, 
Nor  tale  of  doubt  nor  hint  of  blame 

From  over  sea  is  told. 

Three  hours  the  first  November  dawn 
Has  climbed  with  feeble  ray 


186  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Through  mists  like  heavy  curtains  drawn 
Before  the  darkened  day. 

How  still  the  muffled  echoes  sleep ! 

Hark !  hark !  a  hollow  sound,  — 
A  noise  like  chariots  rumbling  deep 

Beneath  the  solid  ground. 

The  channel  lifts,  the  water  slides 

And  bares  its  bar  of  sand, 
Anon  a  mountain  billow  strides 

And  crashes  o'er  the  land. 

The  turrets  lean,  the  steeples  reel 

Like  masts  on  ocean's  swell, 
And  clash  a  long  discordant  peal, 

The  death-doomed  city's  knell. 

The  pavement  bursts,  the  earth  upheaves 
Beneath  the  staggering  town ! 

The  turrets  crack  —  the  castle  cleaves  — 
The  spires  come  rushing  down. 

Around,  the  lurid  mountains  glow 
With  strange  unearthly  gleams ; 

While  black  abysses  gape  below, 
Then  close  in  jagged  seams. 

The  earth  has  folded  like  a  wave, 
And  thrice  a  thousand  score, 

Clasped,  shroudless,  in  their  closing  grave, 
The  sun  shall  see  no  more ! 


AGNES  187 

And  all  is  over.     Street  and  square 

In  ruined  heaps  are  piled  ; 
Ah !  where  is  she,  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Amid  the  tumult  wild  ? 

Unscathed,  she  treads  the  wreck-piled  street, 

Whose  narrow  gaps  afford 
A  pathway  for  her  bleeding  feet, 

To  seek  her  absent  lord. 

A  temple's  broken  walls  arrest 

Her  wild  and  wandering  eyes ; 
Beneath  its  shattered  portal  pressed, 

Her  lord  unconscious  lies. 

The  power  that  living  hearts  obey 

Shall  lifeless  blocks  withstand  ? 
Love  led  her  footsteps  where  he  lay,  — 

Love  nerves  her  woman's  hand  : 

One  cry,  —  the  marble  shaft  she  grasps,  — 
Up  heaves  the  ponderous  stone  :  — 

He  breathes,  —  her  fainting  form  he  clasps,  — 
Her  life  has  bought  his  own  I 

PART   FIFTH 

THE    REWARD 

How  like  the  starless  night  of  death 

Our  being's  brief  eclipse, 
When  faltering  heart  and  failing  breath 

Have  bleached  the  fading  lips ! 


188  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

She  lives  !     What  guerdon  shall  repay 

His  debt  of  ransomed  life  ? 
One  word  can  charm  all  wrongs  away,  — 

The  sacred  name  of  WIFE  ! 

The  love  that  won  her  girlish  charms 
Must  shield  her  matron  fame, 

And  write  beneath  the  Frankland  arms 
The  village  beauty's  name. 

Go,  call  the  priest !  no  vain  delay 

Shall  dim  the  sacred  ring ! 
Who  knows  what  change  the  passing  day, 

The  fleeting  hour,  may  bring  ? 

Before  the  holy  altar  bent, 

There  kneels  a  goodly  pair ; 
A  stately  man,  of  high  descent, 

A  woman,  passing  fair. 

No  jewels  lend  the  blinding  sheen 

That  meaner  beauty  needs, 
But  on  her  bosom  heaves  unseen 

A  string  of  golden  beads. 

The  vow  is  spoke,  —  the  prayer  is  said,  — 

And  with  a  gentle  pride 
The  Lady  Agnes  lifts  her  head, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  bride. 

No  more  her  faithful  heart  shall  bear 
Those  griefs  so  meekly  borne,  — 


AGNES  189 

The  passing  sneer,  the  freezing  stare, 
The  icy  look  of  scorn  ; 

No  more  the  blue-eyed  English  dames 

Their  haughty  lips  shall  curl, 
Whene'er  a  hissing  whisper  names 

The  poor  New  England  girl. 

But  stay  !  —  his  mother's  haughty  brow,  — 

The  pride  of  ancient  race,  — 
Will  plighted  faith,  and  holy  vow, 

Win  back  her  fond  embrace  ? 

Too  well  she  knew  the  saddening  tale 

Of  love  no  vow  had  blest, 
That  turned  his  blushing  honors  pale 

And  stained  his  knightly  crest. 

They  seek  his  Northern  home,  —  alas : 

He  goes  alone  before ;  — 
His  own  dear  Agnes  may  not  pass 

The  proud,  ancestral  door. 

He  stood  before  the  stately  dame ; 

He  spoke  ;  she  calmly  heard, 
But  not  to  pity,  nor  to  blame ; 

She  breathed  no  single  word. 

He  told  his  love,  —  her  faith  betrayed  ; 

She  heard  with  tearless  eyes  ; 
Could  she  forgive  tlie  erring  maid  ? 

She  stared  in  cold  surprise. 


190  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

How  fond  her  heart,  he  told,  —  how  true ; 

The  haughty  eyelids  fell ;  — 
The  kindly  deeds  she  loved  to  do  ; 

She  murmured,  "  It  is  well." 

But  when  he  told  that  fearful  day, 

And  how  her  feet  were  led 
To  where  entombed  in  life  he  lay, 

The  breathing  with  the  dead. 

And  how  she  bruised  her  tender  breasts 

Against  the  crushing  stone, 
That  still  the  strong-armed  clown  protests 

No  man  can  lift  alone,  — 

Oh !  then  the  frozen  spring  was  broke  ; 

By  turns  she  wept  and  smiled  ;  — 
"  Sweet  Agnes  !  "  so  the  mother  spoke, 
"  God  bless  my  angel  child  ! 

"  She  saved  thee  from  the  jaws  of  death,  — 

'T  is  thine  to  right  her  wrongs  ; 
I  tell  thee,  —  I,  who  gave  thee  breath,  — 
To  her  thy  life  belongs  !  " 

Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 

Her  lawless  lover's  hand  ; 
The  lowly  maiden  so  became 

A  lady  in  the  land ! 


AGNES  191 


PART  SIXTH 
CONCLUSION 


The  tale  is  done ;  it  little  needs 

To  track  their  after  ways, 
And  string  again  the  golden  beads 

Of  love's  uncounted  days. 

They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
For  bleak  New  England's  shore  ; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before  ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 

They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 
And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 

Shake  in  the  trembling  stream. 

Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair ; 

His  cheek,  alas  !  grows  pale  ; 
The  breast  that  trampling  death  could  spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail. 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 

For  England's  clouded  sky,  — 
To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew ; 

He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 

Hard  by  the  terraced  hillside  town, 
Where  healing  streamlets  run, 


192  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Still  sparkling  with  their  old  renown,  — 
The  "  Waters  of  the  Sun,"  — 

The  Lady  Agnes  raised  the  stone 
That  marks  his  honored  grave, 

And  there  Sir  Harry  sleeps  alone 
By  Wiltshire  Avon's  wave. 

The  home  of  early  love  was  dear ; 

She  sought  its  peaceful  shade, 
And  kept  her  state  for  many  a  year, 

With  none  to  make  afraid. 

At  last  the  evil  days  were  come 
That  saw  the  red  cross  fall ; 

She  hears  the  rebels'  rattling  drum,  — 
Farewell  to  Frankland  Hall ! 

I  tell  you,  as  my  tale  began, 

The  hall  is  standing  still ; 
And  you,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 

May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 

Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 
Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 

And  one  lies  stretched  below. 

The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridge-pole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 


AGNES  193 

The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 

With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 
The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 

Scarce  can  the  night-winds  jar. 

Behold  the  chosen  room  he  sought 

Alone,  to  fast  and  pray, 
Each  year,  as  chill  November  brought 

The  dismal  earthquake  day. 

There  hung  the  rapier  blade  he  wore, 

Bent  in  its  flattened  sheath  ; 
The  coat  the  shrieking  woman  tore 

Caught  in  her  clenching  teeth  ;  — 

The  coat  with  tarnished  silver  lace 

She  snapped  at  as  she  slid, 
And  down  upon  her  death-white  face 

Crashed  the  huge  coffin's  lid. 

A  graded  terrace  yet  remains ; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 

A  dim,  receding  view, 
Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line, 

He  cut  his  vista  through. 

If  further  story  you  shall  crave, 
Or  ask  for  living  proof, 


194  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Go  see  old  Julia,  born  a  slave 
Beneath  Sir  Harry's  roof. 

She  told  me  half  that  I  have  told, 

And  she  remembers  well 
The  mansion  as  it  looked  of  old 

Before  its  glories  fell ;  — 

The  box,  when  round  the  terraced  square 

Its  glossy  wall  was  drawn  ; 
The  climbing  vines,  the  snow-balls  fair, 

The  roses  on  the  lawn. 

And  Julia  says,  with  truthful  look 
Stamped  on  her  wrinkled  face, 

That  in  her  own  black  hands  she  took 
The  coat  with  silver  lace. 

And  you  may  hold  the  story  light, 

Or,  if  you  like,  believe  ; 
But  there  it  was,  the  woman's  bite,  — 

A  mouthful  from  the  sleeve. 

Now  go  your  ways  ;  —  I  need  not  tell 

The  moral  of  my  rhyme  ; 
But,  youths  and  maidens,  ponder  well 

This  tale  of  olden  time  ! 


THE  PLOUGHMAN  195 

THE  PLOUGHMAN 

ANNIVERSARY   OF  THE    BERKSHIRE    AGRICULTURAL    SO 
CIETY,    OCTOBER   4,  1849 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam ! 
Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough  ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun, 
Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 
Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod ; 
Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 
The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves  ; 
Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain  ; 
Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay, 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round, 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings  ; 
This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green ; 
This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 


196  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men  ; 
These  are  the  lines  which  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

0  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time  ! 
We   stain   thy   flowers,  —  they   blossom   o'er    the 

dead; 

We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn  ; 
Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 
Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  oiir  strength  away. 

No  !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  displayed 

1  n  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed  ; 

By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests  ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 
And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines,  — 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil  j 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 
If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 
These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 


SPRING  197 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run, 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won ! 

SPRING 

WINTER  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms  ; 
Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 
The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green  ; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 
Spring's   earliest  nurslings  spread   their   glowing 

leaves, 

Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 
White,  azure,  golden,  —  drift,  or  sky,  or  sun,  — 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  Winter's  crest : 
The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue  ; 
The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 
Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky  ; 
On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 
The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave, 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave, 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny  pane, 
Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain  ; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls, 
In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent  crawls ; 


198  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 
Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened  leap ; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 
Or,  toiling  aimless  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 
Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair, 
Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 
O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds, 
In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 
And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon  blaze, 
Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays  ; 
O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de-lis, 
Like  blue-eyed  Pallas,  towers  erect  and  free ; 
With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sunshine  glows, 
And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing  rose  ; 
Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 
The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 
Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she  strips, 
Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy  glade, 
The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade ; 
Then  flash  the  wings  returning  Summer  calls 
Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls,  — 
The  bluebird,  breathing  from  his  azure  plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms  ; 
The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down, 


THE  STUDY  199 

Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown  ; 

The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire 

Rent  by  a  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 

The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 

Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note ; 

The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate, 

Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight ; 

Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings, 

Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings. 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging  walls, 
Deaf  to  her  voice,  while  blooming  Nature  calls  ; 
Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying  books  ? 
Off,  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled  past ! 
Fly  with  the  leaves  that  fill  the  autumn  blast  I 
Ye  imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless  chains 
Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living  veins, 
Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive  strays 
Dazzled  and  giddy  in  the  morning's  blaze  ! 


THE  STUDY 

YET  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so  late, 
Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate,  — 
Sepulchral,  rayless,  joyless  as  it  seems, 
Shamed  by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent  beams,  — 
While  the  dim  seasons   dragged   their   shrouded 

train, 

Its  paler  splendors  were  not  quite  in  vain. 
From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  firelight's  glow 


200  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Streamed  through  the  casement  o'er  the  spectral 

snow; 

Here,  while  the  night-wind  wreaked  its  frantic  will 
On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound  hill, 
Rent  the  cracked  topsail  from  its  quivering  yard, 
And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms  had  scarred, 
Fenced  by  these  walls  the  peaceful  taper  shone, 
Nor  felt  a  breath  to  slant  its  trembling  cone. 

Not  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 
When  the  red  curtain  spread  its  falling  screen ; 
O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours  were  past, 
And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast ; 
Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  arms  would  lend 
In  genial  welcome  to  some  easy  friend, 
Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing  nerves, 
Slow  moulding,  plastic,  to  its  hollow  curves  ; 
Perchance  indulging,  if  of  generous  creed, 
In  brave  Sir  Walter's  dream-compelling  weed. 
Or,  happier  still,  the  evening  hour  would  bring 
To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 
And  while  the  punch-bowl's  sounding  depths  were 

stirred,  — 

Its  silver  cherubs  smiling  as  they  heard,  — 
Our  hearts  would  open,  as  at  evening's  hour 
The  close-sealed  primrose  frees  its  hidden  flower. 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat  has  known, 
Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were  flown ; 
Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive  set, 
Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 
Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 
Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every  task. 


THE  STUDY  201 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife  hand  pro 
fanes, 

O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio  reigns ; 
A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance  and  time, 
That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of  every  clime, 
Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may  claim  his  part 
In  some  quaint  corner  of  his  master's  heart. 
This  old  Decretal,  won  from  Kloss's  hoards, 
Thick-leaved,  brass-cornered,    ribbed  with   oaken 

boards, 

Stands  the  gray  patriarch  of  the  graver  rows, 
Its  fourth  ripe  century  narrowing  to  its  close ; 
Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to  view, 
With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red  and  blue. 
There  towers  Stagira's  all-embracing  sage, 
The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page  ; 
There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly  mind, 
In  yon  dark  tomb  by  jealous  clasps  confined, 
"  Olim  e  libris  "  (dare  I  call  it  mine  ?) 
Of  Yale's  grave  Head  and  Killingworth's  divine ! 
In  those  square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro  fill 
The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Baskerville  ; 
High  over  all,  in  close,  compact  array, 
Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 
In  lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 
Range  the  dense  volumes  of  a  humbler  race  ; 
There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mysteries  teach, 
In  spectral  pictures,  or  in  crabbed  speech  ; 
Harvey  and  Haller,  fresh  from  Nature's  page, 
Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 
Lully  and  Geber,  and  the  learned  crew 
That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not  do. 


202         :       SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Why  count  the  rest,  —  those  names  of  later  days 
That  many  love,  and  all  agree  to  praise,  — 
Or  point  the  titles,  where  a  glance  may  read 
The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creed? 
Too  well,  perchance,  the  chosen  list  would  show 
What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim  to  know. 
Each  has  his  features,  whose  exterior  seal 
A  brush  may  copy,  or  a  sunbeam  steal ; 
Go  to  his  study,  —  on  the  nearest  shelf 
Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What  though  for  months  the  tranquil  dust  de 
scends, 

Whitening  the  heads  of  these  mine  ancient  friends, 
While  the  damp  offspring  of  the  modern  press 
Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured  dress  ; 
Not  less  I  love  each  dull  familiar  face, 
Nor  less  should  miss  it  from  the  appointed  place  ; 
I  snatch  the  book,  along  whose  burning  leaves 
His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves, 
Yet,  while  proud  Hester's  fiery  pangs  I  share, 
My  old  MAGNALIA  must  be  standing  there  ! 


THE   BELLS 

WHEN  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal  is  flung 
From  yon  tall  belfry  with  the  brazen  tongue, 
Its  wide  vibrations,  wafted  by  the  gale, 
To  each  far  listener  tell  a  different  tale. 

The  sexton,  stooping  to  the  quivering  floor 
Till  the  great  caldron  spills  its  brassy  roar, 


THE  BELLS  203 

Whirls  the  hot  axle,  counting,  one  by'  one, 
Each  dull  concussion,  till  his  task  is  done. 

Toil's    patient    daughter,    when    the    welcome 

note 
Clangs   through  the    silence    from   the    steeple's 

throat, 

Streams,  a  white  unit,  to  the  checkered  street, 
Demure,  but  guessing  whom  she  soon  shall  meet; 
The  bell,  responsive  to  her  secret  flame, 
With  every  note  repeats  her  lover's  name. 

The  lover,  tenant  of  the  neighboring  lane, 
Sighing,  and  fearing  lest  he  sigh  in  vain, 
Hears  the  stern  accents,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Their  only  burden  one  despairing  No  ! 

Ocean's  rough  child,  whom  many  a  shore  has 

known 

Ere  homeward  breezes  swept  him  to  his  own, 
Starts  at  the  echo  as  it  circles  round, 
A  thousand  memories  kindling  with  the  sound ; 
The  early  favorite's  uuforgotten  charms, 
Whose  blue  initials  stain  his  tawny  arms  ; 
His  first  farewell,  the  flapping  canvas  spread, 
The  seaward  streamers  crackling  overhead, 
His  kind,  pale  mother,  not  ashamed  to  weep 
Her  first-born's  bridal  with  the  haggard  deep, 
While  the  brave  father  stood  with  tearless  eye, 
Smiling  and  choking  with  his  last  good-by. 

'T  is  but  a  wave,  whose  spreading  circle  beats, 
With  the  same  impulse,  every  nerve  it  meets, 
Yet  who  shall  count  the  varied  shapes  that  ride 
On  the  round  surge  of  that  aerial  tide  1 


204  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

O  child  of  'earth  !  If  floating  sounds  like  these 
Steal  from  thyself  their  power  to  wound  or  please, 
If  here  or  there  thy  changing  will  inclines, 
As  the  bright  zodiac  shifts  its  rolling  signs, 
Look    at   thy   heart,   and   when    its    depths    are 

known, 

Then  try  thy  brother's,  judging  by  thine  own, 
But  keep  thy  wisdom  to  the  narrower  range, 
While  its  own  standards  are  the  sport  of  change, 
Nor  count  us  rebels  when  we  disobey 
The  passing  breath  that  holds  thy  passion's  sway. 


NON-RESISTANCE 

PERHAPS  too  far  in  these  considerate  days 
Has  patience  carried  her  submissive  ways ; 
Wisdom  has  taught  us  to  be  calm  and  meek, 
To  take  one  blow,  and  turn  the  other  cheek ; 
It  is  not  written  what  a  man  shall  do, 
If  the  rude  caitiff  smite  the  other  too ! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine  hour  of  need 
God  help  thee,  guarded  by  the  passive  creed ! 
As  the  lone  pilgrim  trusts  to  beads  and  cowl, 
When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray  wolf's 

howl; 

As  the  deep  galleon  trusts  her  gilded  prow 
When  the  black  corsair  slants  athwart  her  bow  ; 
As  the  poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful  mien, 
Trusts  to  his  feathers,  shining  golden-green, 
When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crimson  beak 


THE  MORAL   BULLY  205 

Has  rustled  shadowy  from  its  splintered  peak,  — 
So  trust  thy  friends,  whose  babbling  tongues  would 

charm 

The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 
Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 
From  bellowing  fort  and  thunder-freighted  keel ! 


THE  MORAL  BULLY 

YON  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to  wear 
A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 
Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded  place 
One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space ; 
A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 
Whom  small  disturbance  whitens  round  the  lip  ; 
One  of  those  harmless  spectacled  machines, 
The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes ; 
Whom    school-boys   question  if  their  walk   tran 
scends 

The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends  ; 
Whom  John,  obedient  to  his  master's  sign, 
Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 
While  Peter,  glistening  with  luxurious  scorn, 
Husks  his  white  ivories  like  an  ear  of  corn  ; 
Dark  in  the  brow  and  bilious  in  the  cheek, 
Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once  a  week, 
Conspicuous,  annual,  in  their  threadbare  suits, 
And  the  laced  high -lows   which  they  call  their 

boots, 

Well  mayst  thou  shun  that  dingy  front  severe, 
But  him,  O  stranger,  him  thou  canst  not  fear  ! 


206  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  despise, 
Man  of  broad  shoulders  and  heroic  size  ! 
The  tiger,  writhing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops  at  the  fountain  where  the  cobra  stings. 
In  that  lean  phantom,  whose  extended  glove 
Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold  the  master  that  can  tame  thee  down 
To  crouch,  the  vassal  of  his  Sunday  frown  ; 
His  velvet  throat  against  thy  corded  wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled  fist ! 

The  MORAL  BULLY,  though  he  never  swears, 
Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry  stairs, 
Though  meekness  plants  his  backward-sloping  hat, 
And  non-resistance  ties  his  white  cravat, 
Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to  be  seen 
In  the  same  plight  with  Shylock's  gaberdine, 
Hugs  the  same  passion  to  his  narrow  breast 
That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's  chest, 
Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in  his  rear 
That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buccaneer, 
Feels  the  same  comfort  while  his  acrid  words 
Turn  the  sweet  milk  of  kindness  into  curds, 
Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  debate, 
That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our  hate, 
As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's  deck, 
When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  staggering  wreck ! 

Heaven  keep  us  all !    Is  every  rascal  clown 
Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock  us  down  ? 
Has  every  scarecrow,  whose  cachectic  soul 
Seems  fresh  from  Bedlam,  airing  on  parole, 


THE  MIND'S  DIET  207 

Who,  though  he  carries  but  a  doubtful  trace 
Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 
From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to  pay, 
Has  dodged  some  vices  in  a  shabby  way, 
The  right  to  stick  us  with  his  cutthroat  terms, 
And  bait  his  homilies  with  his  brother  worms  ? 


THE    MIND'S    DIET 

No  life  worth  naming  ever  comes  to  good 
If  always  nourished  on  the  selfsame  food  ; 
The  creeping  mite  may  live  so  if  he  please, 
And  feed  on  Stilton  till  he  turns  to  cheese, 
But  cool  Magendie  proves  beyond  a  doubt, 
If  mammals  try  it,  that  their  eyes  drop  out. 

No  reasoning  natures  find  it  safe  to  feed, 
For  their  sole  diet,  on  a  single  creed ; 
It  spoils  their  eyeballs  while  it  spares  their  tongues, 
And  starves  the  heart  to  feed  the  noisy  lungs. 

When  the  first  larvse  on  the  elm  are  seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves,  are  green  ; 
Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint  to  brown ; 
On  the  blue  flower  a  bluer  flower  you  spy, 
You  stretch  to  pluck  it  —  't  is  a  butterfly ; 
The  flattened  tree-toads  so  resemble  bark, 
They  're  hard  to  find  as  Ethiops  in  the  dark ; 
The  woodcock,  stiffening  to  fictitious  mud, 
Cheats  the  young  sportsman  thirsting  for  his  blood ; 


208  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

So  by  long  living  on  a  single  lie, 

Nay,  on  one  truth,  will  creatures  get  its  dye  ; 

Red,    yellow,    green,    they    take    their    subject's 

hue,  — 
Except  when  squabbling  turns   them  black   and 

blue! 


OUR  LIMITATIONS 

WE  trust  and  fear,  we  question  and  believe, 
From  life's   dark  threads   a  trembling  faith    to 

weave, 

Frail  as  the  web  that  misty  night  has  spun, 
Whose  dew-gemmed  awnings  glitter  in  the  sun. 
While  the  calm  centuries  spell  their  lessons  out, 
Each  truth    we    conquer   spreads    the    realm    of 

doubt ; 

When  Sinai's  summit  was  Jehovah's  throne, 
The  chosen  Prophet  knew  his  voice  alone  ; 
When  Pilate's  hall  that  awful  question  heard, 
The  Heavenly  Captive  answered  not  a  word. 

Eternal  Truth !  beyond  our  hopes  and  fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad  spheres ! 
From  age  to  age,  while  History  carves  sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  flaming  curves  of  time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we  know. 


THE   OLD  PLAYER  209 


THE  OLD  PLAYER 

THE  curtain  rose  ;  in  thunders  long  and  loud 
The  galleries  rung ;  the  veteran  actor  bowed. 
In  flaming  line  the  telltales  of  the  stage 
Showed  on  his  brow  the  autograph  of  age ; 
Pale,  hueless  waves  amid  his  clustered  hair, 
And  umbered  shadows,  prints  of  toil  and  care ; 
Round  the  wide  circle  glanced  his  vacant  eye,  — 
He  strove  to  speak,  —  his  voice  was  but  a  sigh. 

Year  after  year  had  seen  its  short-lived  race 
Flit  past  the  scenes  and  others  take  their  place ; 
Yet  the  old  prompter  watched  his  accents  still, 
His  name  still  flaunted  on  the  evening's  bill. 
Heroes,  the  monarchs  of  the  scenic  floor, 
Had  died  in  earnest  and  were  heard  no  more  ; 
Beauties,  whose  cheeks   such  roseate  bloom  o'er- 

spread 

They  faced  the  footlights  in  unborrowed  red, 
Had  faded  slowly  through  successive  shades 
To  gray  duennas,  foils  of  younger  maids  ; 
Sweet  voices  lost  the  melting  tones  that  start 
With  Southern  throbs  the  sturdy  Saxon  heart, 
While  fresh  sopranos  shook  the  painted  sky 
With  their  long,  breathless,  quivering  locust-cry. 
Yet  there  he  stood,  —  the  man  of  other  days, 
In  the  clear  present's  full,  unsparing  blaze, 
As  on  the  oak  a  faded  leaf  that  clings 
While  a  new  April  spreads  its  burnished  wings. 


210  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

How  bright  yon  rows  that  soared  in  triple  tier, 
Their  central  sun  the  flashing  chandelier ! 
How  dim  the  eye  that  sought  with  doubtful  aim 
Some  friendly  smile  it  still  might  dare  to  claim ! 
How  fresh  these  hearts  !  his  own   how  worn  and 

cold! 

Such  the  sad  thoughts   that  long-drawn  sigh  had 
told. 

No  word  yet  faltered  on  his  trembling  tongue ; 
Again,  again,  the  crashing  galleries  rung. 
As  the  old  guardsman  at  the  bugle's  blast 
Hears  in  its  strain  the  echoes  of  the  past, 
So,  as  the  plaudits  rolled  and  thundered  round, 
A  life  of  memories  startled  at  the  sound. 

He  lived  again,  —  the  page  of  earliest  days,  — 
Days  of  small  fee  and  parsimonious  praise  ; 
Then  lithe  young  Romeo  —  hark  that  silvered  tone, 
From  those  smooth  lips  —  alas !  they  were  his  own. 
Then  the  bronzed  Moor,  with  all  his  love  and  woe, 
Told  his  strange  tale  of  midnight  melting  snow ; 
And  dark -plumed   Hamlet,  with   his   cloak  and 

blade, 

Looked  on  the  royal  ghost,  himself  a  shade. 
All  in  one  flash,  his  youthful  memories  came, 
Traced  in  bright  hues  of  evanescent  flame, 
As  the  spent  swimmer's  in  the  lifelong  dream, 
While  the  last  bubble  rises  through  the  stream. 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 
For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 


THE   OLD  PLAYER  211 

If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  at  their  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart, 
Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told,  — 
Count  his  gray  hairs,  —  they  cannot  make  him  old  ! 

What  magic  power  has  changed  the  faded  mime  ? 
One  breath  of  memory  on  the  dust  of  time. 
As  the  last  window  in  the  buttressed  wall 
Of  some  gray  minster  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Though  to  the  passing  crowd  its  hues  are  spread, 
A  dull  mosaic,  yellow,  green,  and  red, 
Viewed  from  within,  a  radiant  glory  shows 
When  through  its  pictured  screen  the  sunlight  flows, 
And  kneeling  pilgrims  on  its  storied  pane 
See  angels  glow  in  every  shapeless  stain  ; 
So  streamed  the  vision  through  his  sunken  eye, 
Clad  in  the  splendors  of  his  morning  sky. 

All  the  wild  hopes  his  eager  boyhood  knew, 
All  the  young  fancies  riper  years  proved  true, 
The  sweet,  low-whispered  words,  the  winning  glance 
From  queens  of  song,  from  Houris  of  the  dance, 
Wealth's  lavish  gift,  and  Flattery's  soothing  phrase, 
And  Beauty's  silence  when  her  blush  was  praise, 
And  melting  Pride,  her  lashes  wet  with  tears, 
Triumphs  and  banquets,  wreaths  and  crowns  and 

cheers, 

Pangs  of  wild  joy  that  perish  on  the  tongue, 
And  all  that  poets  dream,  but  leave  unsung  ! 

In  every  heart  some  viewless  founts  are  fed 
From  far-off  hillsides  where  the  dews  were  shed ; 


212  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

On  the  worn  features  of  the  weariest  face 
Some  youthful  memory  leaves  its  hidden  trace, 
As  in  old  gardens  left  by  exiled  kings 
The  marble  basins  tell  of  hidden  springs, 
But,  gray  with  dust,  and  overgrown  with  weeds, 
Their  choking  jets  the  passer  little  heeds, 
Till  time's  revenges  break  their  seals  away, 
And,  clad  in  rainbow  light,  the  waters  play. 

Good  night,  fond  dreamer !  let  the  curtain  fall : 
The  world  's  a  stage,  and  we  are  players  all. 
A  strange  rehearsal !    Kings  without  their  crowns, 
And  threadbare  lords,  and  jewel-wearing  clowns, 
Speak  the  vain  words  that  mock  their  throbbing 

hearts, 
As  Want,  stern  prompter !    spells  them  out  their 

parts. 

The  tinselled  hero  whom  we  praise  and  pay 
Is  twice  an  actor  in  a  twofold  play. 
We  smile  at  children  when  a  painted  screen 
Seems  to  their  simple  eyes  a  real  scene ; 
Ask  the  poor  hireling,  who  has  left  his  throne 
To  seek  the  cheerless  home  he  calls  his  own, 
Which  of  his  double  lives  most  real  seems, 
The  world  of  solid  fact  or  scenic  dreams  ? 
Canvas,  or  clouds,  —  the  footlights,  or  the  spheres, — 
The  play  of  two  short  hours,  or  seventy  years  ? 
Dream  on  !    Though  Heaven  may  woo  our  open 

eyes, 

Through  their  closed  lids  we  look  on  fairer  skies ; 
Truth  is  for  other  worlds,  and  hope  for  this ; 
The  cheating  future  lends  the  present's  bliss ; 


THE  PITTSFIELD   CEMETERY         213 

Life  is  a  running  shade,  with  fettered  hands, 
That  chases  phantoms  over  shifting  sands  ; 
Death  a  still  spectre  on  a  marble  seat, 
With  ever  clutching  palms  and  shackled  feet ; 
The  airy  shapes  that  mock  life's  slender  chain, 
The  flying  joys  he  strives  to  clasp  in  vain, 
Death  only  grasps  ;  to  live  is  to  pursue,  — 
Dream  on  !  there  's  nothing  but  illusion  true ! 


A  POEM 

DEDICATION    OF   THE   PITTSFIELD  CEMETERY,  SEPTEMBER 
9,  1850 

ANGEL  of  Death !  extend  thy  silent  reign ! 
Stretch  thy  dark  sceptre  o'er  this  new  domain  i 
No  sable  car  along  the  winding  road 
Has  borne  to  earth  its  unresisting  load ; 
No  sudden  mound  has  risen  yet  to  show 
Where  the  pale  slumberer  folds  his  arms  below  ; 
No  marble  gleams  to  bid  his  memory  live 
In  the  brief  lines  that  hurrying  Time  can  give ; 
Yet,  O  Destroyer  !  from  thy  shrouded  throne 
Look  on  our  gift ;  this  realm  is  all  thine  own  ! 

Fair  is  the  scene ;  its  sweetness  oft  beguiled 
From  their  dim  paths  the  children  of  the  wild  ; 
The  dark-haired  maiden  loved  its  grassy  dells, 
The  feathered  warrior  claimed  its  wooded  swells, 
Still  on  its  slopes  the  ploughman's  ridges  show 
The  pointed  flints  that  left  his  fatal  bow, 


214  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Chipped  with  rough  art  and  slow  barbarian  toil,  — 
Last  of  his  wrecks  that  strews  the  alien  soil ! 

Here  spread  the  fields  that  heaped  their  ripened 

store 

Till  the  brown  arms  of  Labor  held  no  more  ; 
The  scythe's  broad  meadow  with  its  dusky  blush  ; 
The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush  ; 
The  green-haired  maize,  her  silken  tresses  laid, 
In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade  ; 
The  gourd  that  swells  beneath  her  tossing  plume ; 
The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in  lakes  of  bloom,  — 
Its  coral  stems  and  milk-white  flowers  alive 
With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered  hive  ; 
Here  glowed  the  apple  with  the  pencilled  streak 
Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern  cheek ; 
The  pear's  long  necklace  strung  with  golden  drops, 
Arched,  like  the  banian,  o'er  its  pillared  props  ; 
Here  crept  the  growths  that  paid  the  laborer's  care 
With  the  cheap  luxuries  wealth  consents  to  spare ; 
Here  sprang  the  healing  herbs  which  could  not  save 
The  hand  that  reared  them  from  the  neighboring 
grave. 

Yet  all  its  varied  charms,  forever  free 
From  task  and  tribute,  Labor  yields  to  thee : 
No  more,  when  April  sheds  her  fitful  rain, 
The  sower's  hand  shall  cast  its  flying  grain ; 
No  more,  when  Autumn  strews  the  flaming  leaves, 
The  reaper's  band  shall  gird  its  yellow  sheaves ; 
For  thee  alike  the  circling  seasons  flow 
Till  the  first  blossoms  heave  the  latest  snow. 
In  the  stiff  clod  below  the  whirling  drifts, 
In  the  loose  soil  the  springing  herbage  lifts, 


THE  PITTSFIELD   CEMETERY          215 

In  the  hot  dust  beneath  the  parching  weeds, 
Life's   withering   flower   shall   drop  its   shrivelled 

seeds ; 
Its  germ  entranced  in  thy  unbreathing  sleep 

Till  what  thou  sowest  mightier  angels  reap  ! 

• 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  let  thy  graces  blend 
With  loveliest  Nature  all  that  Art  can  lend. 
Come  from  the  bowers  where  Summer's  life-blood 

flows 

Through  the  red  lips  of  June's  half-open  rose, 
Dressed  in  bright  hues,  the  loving  sunshine's  dower ; 
For  tranquil  Nature  owns  no  mourning  flower. 

Come  from  the  forest  where  the  beech's  screen 
Bars  the  fierce  noonbeam  with  its  flakes  of  green  ; 
Stay  the  rude  axe  that  bares  the  shadowy  plains, 
Stanch  the  deep  wound  that  dries  the  maple's  veins. 

Come  with  the  stream  whose  silver-braided  rills 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the  hills, 
Till  in  one  gleam,  beneath  the  forest's  wings, 
Melts  the  white  glitter  of  a  hundred  springs. 

Come  from  the  steeps  where  look  majestic  forth 
From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of  the  North 
On  the  huge  shapes,  that,  crouching  at  their  knees, 
Stretch  their  broad   shoulders,  rough  with  shaggy 

trees. 

Through  the  wide  waste  of  ether,  not  in  vain, 
Their  softened  gaze  shall  reach  our  distant  plain ; 
There,  while  the  mourner  turns  his  aching  eyes 
On  the  blue  mounds  that  print  the  bluer  skies, 
Nature  shall  whisper  that  the  fading  view 
Of  mightiest  grief  may  wear  a  heavenly  hue. 


216  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Cherub  of  Wisdom !  let  thy  marble  page 
Leave  its  sad  lesson,  new  to  every  age  ; 
Teach  us  to  live,  not  grudging  every  breath 
To  the  chill  winds  that  waft  us  on  to  death, 
But  ruling  calmly  every  pulse  it  warms, 
And  tempering  gently  every  word  it  forms. 
Seraph  of  Love  !  in  heaven's  adoring  zone, 
Nearest  of  all  around  the  central  throne, 
While  with  soft  hands  the  pillowed  turf  we  spread 
That  soon  shall  hold  us  in  its  dreamless  bed, 
With  the  low  whisper,  —  Who  shall  first  be  laid 
In  the  dark  chamber's  yet  unbroken  shade  ?  — 
Let  thy  sweet  radiance  shine  rekindled  here, 
And  all  we  cherish  grow  more  truly  dear. 
Here  in  the  gates  of  Death's  o'erhanging  vault, 
Oh,  teach  us  kindness  for  our  brother's  fault : 
Lay  all  our  wrongs  beneath  this  peaceful  sod, 
And  lead  our  hearts  to  Mercy  and  its  God. 

FATHER  of  all !  in  Death's  relentless  claim 
We  read  thy  mercy  by  its  sterner  name ; 
In  the  bright  flower  that  decks  the  solemn  bier, 
We  see  thy  glory  in  its  narrowed  sphere  ; 
In  the  deep  lessons  that  affliction  draws, 
We  trace  the  curves  of  thy  encircling  laws  ; 
In  the  long  sigh  that  sets  our  spirits  free, 
We  own  the  love  that  calls  us  back  to  Thee ! 

Through  the  hushed  street,  along  the  silent  plain, 
The  spectral  future  leads  its  mourning  train, 
Dark  with  the  shadows  of  uncounted  bands, 
Where  man's  white   lips   and  woman's   wringing 
hands 


TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN  217 

Track  the  still  burden,  rolling  slow  before, 
That  love  and  kindness  can  protect  no  more ; 
The  smiling  babe  that,  called  to  mortal  strife, 
Shuts  its  meek  eyes  and  drops  its  little  life ; 
The  drooping  child  who  prays  in  vain  to  live, 
And  pleads  for  help  its  parent  cannot  give  ; 
The  pride  of  beauty  stricken  in  its  flower ; 
The  strength  of  manhood  broken  in  an  hour ; 
Age  in  its  weakness,  bowed  by  toil  and  care, 
Traced  in  sad  lines  beneath  its  silvered  hair. 

The   sun   shall   set,   and    heaven's    resplendent 

spheres 

Gild  the  smooth  turf  unhallowed  yet  by  tears, 
But  ah !  how  soon  the  evening  stars  will  shed 
Their  sleepless  light  around  the  slumbering  dead ! 

Take  them,  O  Father,  in  immortal  trust ! 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Till  the  last  angel  rolls  the  stone  away, 
And  a  new  morning  brings  eternal  day  ! 


TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN 

DEAR  GOVERNOR,  if  my  skiff  might  brave 
The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 
The  mountain  stream  that  loops  and  swerves 
Through  my  broad  meadow's  channelled  curves 
Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  Sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  thee. 


218  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

It  may  not  be  ;  too  long  the  track 

To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 

The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 

Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 

The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 

In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 

While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  fills 

The  stream  that  scarfs  my  spruce-clad  hills ; 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 

Long  ere  my  barnyard  chanticleer  ; 

Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue 

While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be ;  oh,  would  it  might, 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night ! 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife,  — 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 
The  very  bank  of  language  broke,  — 
Such  deeds,  that  Laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side  ; 
While  Time,  caught  fast  in  pleasure's  chain, 
His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full,  —  but  not  of  sand ! 

It  may  not  be  ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay ; 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND  219 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 
They  raise  along  my  threatened  path ; 
The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 
The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 
The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 
The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 
Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 
They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 
Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 
My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 
Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free !  — 
And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee ! 

PlTTSFIELD,   1851. 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 

THE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 
Its  living  germ  has  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from  common  blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 

Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower; 

Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  has  flown, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  zone  to  zone, 


220  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 
The  tepid  waves  of  Pontchartrain, 
Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 
Katahclin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 

Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The  life-blood  drawn  from  English  veins, 
Still  bearing  wheresoe'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged  by  space,  unwronged  by  time, 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime  ! 
1852. 


AFTER    A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH 

COME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 

O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown ; 
Hark  !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills  ;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH     221 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 

With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 
Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 

They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark,  —  a  pygmy's  ship ; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls  ; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between  ; 

Without  an  oar  we  glide  ; 
The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well, 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies  ; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung  j 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 
And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 


222    N  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 
And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream !  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first ; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 
Her  morning  hand  she  tried ; 

Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 
And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 
Her  elm  with  hanging  spray  ; 

She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 
Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 

Look  on  the  forests'  ancient  kings, 
The  hemlock's  towering  pride : 

Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 
And  fell  before  it  died. 

Nor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 
And  slights  our  grassy  plain ; 

For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 
Look  on  its  broidered  train  ; 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 
Brands  of  the  noontide  beam  ; 

The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 
Its  double  in  the  stream, 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH     223 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 

Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 
Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 

In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark !  and  hark  !  the  woodland  rings ; 

There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul ; 
And  look !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole ! 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky  ; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing,  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 

Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 
Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint ! 

Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

Yet  think  not  so  ;  Old  England's  blood 

Runs  warm  in  English  veins  ; 
But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 

Its  better  life  remains  : 

Our  children  know  each  wildwood  smell, 
The  bayberry  and  the  fern, 


224  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 
»       Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 

Be  patient !     On  the  breathing  page 
Still  pants  our  hurried  past ; 

Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 
The  poet  comes  the  last ! 

Though  still  the  lark-voiced  matins  ring 
The  world  has  known  so  long  ; 

The  wood-thrush  of  the  West  shall  sing 
Earth's  last  sweet  even-song ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE 

SHINE  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 

That  strew  the  mourning  skies ; 
Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night 

The  harp  of  Erin  lies. 

What  though  her  thousand  years  have  past 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings,  — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings. 

Fling  o'er  his  mound,  ye  star-lit  bowers, 

The  balmiest  wreaths  ye  ,wear, 
Whose  breath  has  lent  your  earth-born  flowers 

Heaven's  own  ambrosial  air. 

Breathe,  bird  of  night,  thy  softest  tone, 
By  shadowy  grove  and  rill ; 


AFTER  A   LECTURE   ON  MOORE        225 

Thy  song  will  soothe  us  while  we  own 
That  his  was  sweeter  still. 

Stay,  pitying  Time,  thy  foot  for  him 

Who  gave  thee  swifter  wings, 
Nor  let  thine  envious  shadow  dim 

The  light  his  glory  flings. 

If  in  his  cheek  unholy  blood 

Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 
'T  was  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 

That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower. 

Take  him,  kind  mother,  to  thy  breast, 

Who  loved  thy  smiles  so  well, 
And  spread  thy  mantle  o'er  his  rest 

Of  rose  and  asphodel. 

The  bark  has  sailed  the  midnight  sea, 

The  sea  without  a  shore, 
That  waved  its  parting  sign  to  thee,  — 

"  A  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore !  " 

And  thine,  long  lingering  on  the  strand, 
Its  bright-hued  streamers  furled, 

Was  loosed  by  age,  with  trembling  hand, 
To  seek  the  silent  world. 

Not  silent !  no,  the  radiant  stars 

Still  singing  as  they  shine, 
Unheard  through  earth's  imprisoning  bars, 

Have  voices  sweet  as  thine. 


226  SONGS    IN  MANY  KEYS 

Wake,  then,  in  happier  realms  above, 
The  songs  of  bygone  years, 

Till  angels  learn  those  airs  of  love 
That  ravished  mortal  ears  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS 

"  Purpureos  spargam  flores." 

THE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave 

Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 

Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 

Her  store  of  slender  violets  ; 

Though  all  the  Gods  their  garlands  shower, 

I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 

Alas  !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring, 

That  opens  in  my  Northern  spring  ? 

The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 

So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child  ; 

Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 

Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks ; 

The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 

The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 

No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 

The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis  ; 

Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 

In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow  ; 

The  grass  has  quenched  my  white-rayed  gem, 

The  flowering  "  Star  of  Bethlehem," 

Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 

And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 

Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 


AFTER  A   LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY      227 

And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 
Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 
Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 
Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 
When  snows  were  melting  down  the  vale, 
And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 
And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, 
And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 
I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 
That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 
And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 
Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 
Meek  child  of  earth !  thou  wilt  not  shame 
The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name  ; 
The  God  of  music  gave  thee  birth, 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacmthus  lay. 
The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacherous  bay; 

On  comes  the  blast ;  too  daring  bark,  beware ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her  ;  lo !  it  melts  away ; 

The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is  there. 

Morning  :  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea  ; 

Midnight :  with  lamps  the  long  veranda  burns ; 


228  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Come,  wandering  sail,  they  watch,  they  burn  for 

thee! 
Suns  come  and  go,  alas !  no  bark  returns. 

And  feet  are  thronging  on  the  pebbly  sands, 
And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves, 

Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 

The  shapes  uplifted  from  their  coral  graves. 

Vainly  they  seek ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er ; 

The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their  hanging  locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the  shore 

To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 

But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing  wail, 

"  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters,  yield ! " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised  the  pale  burden  on  his  level  shield. 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  retire  ; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim  ; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath  of 
flame. 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return  ; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson  shroud  ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn ; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 

Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying  heart, 


CLOSE   OF  A    COURSE   OF  LECTURES     229 

Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue-vaulted  skies, 

Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 

% 

Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  passing  sigh, 
O   happier   Christian,    while   thine   eye    grows 
dim,  — 

In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him  1 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES 

As  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mariner's  dream, 
As  the  footstep  of  Spring  on  the  ice-girdled  stream, 
There  comes  a  soft  footstep,  a  whisper,  to  me,  — 
The  vision  is  over,  —  the  rivulet  free  ! 

We  have   trod   from  the  threshold   of   turbulent 

March, 

Till  the  green  scarf  of  April  is  hung  on  the  larch, 
And  down  the  bright   hillside  that  welcomes  the 

day, 
We  hear  the  warm  panting  of  beautiful  May. 

We  will  part  before  Summer  has  opened  her  wing, 
And  the  bosom  of  June  swells  the  bodice  of  Spring, 
While  the  hope  of  the  season  lies  fresh  in  the  bud, 
And  the  young  life  of  Nature  runs  warm  in  our 
blood. 

It  is  but  a  word,  and  the  chain  is  unbound, 

The  bracelet  of  steel  drops  unclasped  to  the  ground  ; 


230  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

No  hand  shall  replace  it,  —  it  rests  where  it  fell,  — 
It  is  but  one  word  that  we  all  know  too  well. 

f 

Yet  the  hawk  with  the  wildness  untamed  in  his  eye, 
If  you  free  him,  stares  round  ere  he  springs  to  the 

sky; 

The  slave  whom  no  longer  his  fetters  restrain 
Will  turn  for  a  moment  and  look  at  his  chain. 

Our  parting  is  not  as  the  friendship  of  years, 
That  chokes  with  the  blessing  it  speaks  through  its 

tears ; 

We  have  walked  in  a  garden,  and,  looking  around, 
Have  plucked  a  few  leaves  from  the  myrtles  we 

found. 

But  now  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  we  stand, 
And  the  moment  has  come  for  unclasping  the  hand ; 
Will  you  drop  it  like  lead,  and  in  silence  retreat 
Like  the  twenty  crushed  forms  from  an  omnibus 
seat? 

Nay!    hold   it  one  moment,  —  the   last   we  may 

share,  — 

I  stretch  it  in  kindness,  and  not  for  my  fare  ; 
You  may  pass  through  the  doorway  in  rank  or  in 

file, 
If  your  ticket  from  Nature  is  stamped  with  a  smile. 

For  the  sweetest  of  smiles  is  the  smile  as  we  part, 
When  the  light  round  the  lips  is  a  ray  from  the 
heart ; 


THE  HUDSON  231 

And  lest  a  stray  tear  from  its  fountain  might  swell, 
We  will  seal  the  bright  spring  with  a  quiet  fare 
well. 


THE  HUDSON 

AFTER   A   LECTURE   AT   ALBANY 

'TwAS  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came  with  its 

dawn, 
Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's   day-star  was 

drawn ; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows  grew 

long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it  in  song. 

"There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of  the 

West,"  — 

She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her  breast ; 
"  Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers  have  played ; 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are  laid." 

I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing  stream 
With  the  many-hued  pencil  of  infancy's  dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle-crowned  Rhine, 
Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and  change 

it  to  wine ; 

I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they  glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their  side. 


232  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

But  my  heart  would  still  yearn  for  the  sound  of  the 

waves 

That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers'  graves ; 
If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a  tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it, —  no  blush  for  it  here! 

Farewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of  the  West ! 
I  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its  breast ; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow  cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters  have  rolled  I 

December,  1854. 

THE  NEW  EDEN 

MEETING   OF  THE   BERKSHIRE  HORTICULTURAL  SOCIETY, 
AT   STOCKBRIDGE,   SEPTEMBER  13,  1854 

SCAECE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 

Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving  bow, 

When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 

The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's  plough. 

Then  sprang  from  many  a  rock-strewn  field 
The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 

Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 
To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 

The  hillsides  gleamed  with  golden  maize. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistening  here  and  there  ; 


THE  NEW  EDEN  233 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core, 

Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 
To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 

We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  ice-clad  heart 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms  to  her  children's  patient  wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 

Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 

Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 
Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 

And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 


234  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings ; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 
And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 

Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  rustling  stone, 
There  venturous  boyhood  learned  to  climb,  • 

How  well  the  early  graft  was  known 
Whose  fruit  was  ripe  ere  harvest-time ! 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

With  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled  and  splashed  with  streak  and  spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 
Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 

Her  deep-cleft  bosom  scarfed  with  green,  — 
Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell, 


THE  NEW  EDEN  235 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight ; 
These  left  the  garden,  —  these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung  : 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  tire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 


What  though  in  some  unmoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 


236  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair, 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast! 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 
Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 

And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning  plain ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours, 

Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  hoarded  springs, 
And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 
The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 

Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 
To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 
Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest ; 


SEMI-CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION     237 

It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 
It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate,  — 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall ! 


SEMI-CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
NEW  ENGLAND   SOCIETY 

NEW   YORK,    DECEMBER   22,  1855 

NEW  ENGLAND,  we  love  thee ;  no  time  can  erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile  on  thy 

face. 

'T  is  the  mother's  fond  look  of  affection  and  pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of  his  bride. 

His  bride  may  be  fresher  in  beauty's  young  flower  ; 
She  may  blaze  in  the  jewels  she  brings  with  her 

dower. 

But  passion  must  chill  in  Time's  pitiless  blast ; 
The  one  that  first  loved  us  will  love  to  the  last. 

You  have  left  the  dear  land  of  the  lake  and  the 

hiU, 

But  its  winds  and  its  waters  will  talk  with  you  still. 
"  Forget  not,"   they  whisper,  "  your  love  is   our 

debt," 
And  echo  breathes  softly,  "  "We  never  forget." 

The  banquet's  gay  splendors  are  gleaming  around, 


238  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

But  your  hearts  have  flown  back  o'er  the  waves  of 

the  Sound ; 
They  have  found    the   brown  home   where   their 

pulses  were  born ; 
They  are  throbbing  their  way  through  the  trees  and 

the  corn. 

There  are  roofs  you   remember,  —  their  glory  is 

fled; 
There  are  mounds  in  the  churchyard,  —  one  sigh 

for  the  dead. 
There  are  wrecks,  there  are  ruins,  all  scattered 

around ; 
But  Earth  has  no  spot  like  that  corner  of  ground. 

Come,  let  us  be  cheerful,  —  remember  last  night, 
How  they  cheered  us,  and  —  never  mind  —  meant 

it  all  right ; 

To-night,  we  harm  nothing,  —  we  love  in  the  lump  ; 
Here  's  a  bumper  to  Maine,  in  the  juice  of  the 

pump ! 

Here  *s  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever  they  be, 
Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  liberty-tree ; 
We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms  and  fruit, 
But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round  its  root. 

We  should  like  to  talk  big ;  it 's  a  kind  of  a  right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got  loose  and  the  waistband 

grown  tight ; 
But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked   to   her 

beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost  no  biddy  should  crow. 


FAREWELL  239 

Enough !     There  are  gentlemen  waiting  to  talk, 
Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower  to  the  stalk. 
Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  befall ; 
God  bless  all  her  children  !    Good  night  to  you  all ! 


FAREWELL 

TO  J.    B.    LOWELL 

FAREWELL,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast  to  the  tide, 
And  the  rough  arms  of  Ocean  are  stretched  for  his 

bride ; 

The  winds  from  the  mountain  stream  over  the  bay ; 
One  clasp  of  the  hand,  then  away  and  away ! 

I  see  the  tall  mast  as  it  rocks  by  the  shore ; 
The  sun  is  declining,  I  see  it  once  more  ; 
To-day  like  the  blade  in  a  thick-waving  field, 
To-morrow  the  spike  on  a  Highlander's  shield. 

Alone,  while  the  cloud  pours  its  treacherous  breath, 
With  the  blue  lips  all  round  her  whose  kisses  are 

death ; 

Ah,  think  not  the  breeze  that  is  urging  her  sail 
Has  left  her  unaided  to  strive  with  the  gale. 

There  are  hopes  that  play  round  her,  like  fires  on 

the  mast, 
That  will  light  the  dark  hour  till  its  danger  has 

past; 
There  are  prayers  that  will  plead  with  the  storm 

when  it  raves, 
And  whisper  "  Be  still !  "  to  the  turbulent  waves. 


240  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS. 

Nay,  think  not  that  Friendship  has  called  us  in 

vain 

To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it  again ; 
There  is  strength  in  its  circle,  —  you  lose  the  bright 

star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though  shining  afar. 

I  give  you  one  health  in  the  juice  of  the  vine, 
The    blood    of   the    vineyard   shall    mingle    with 

mine; 

Thus,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew-drops  of  gold, 
As  we  empty  our  hearts    of   the   blessings  they 

hold. 
April  29, 1855. 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB 

1856 

THE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder ; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder  ; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks ; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned ; 
Wachusett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks ; 

Monadnock  to  Ben  Lomond  ! 

Though  years  have  clipped  the  eagle's  plume 
That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet, 

The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 
The  silver  mists  lie  on  it; 


MEETING   OF  THE  BURNS   CLUB       241 

With  tartan  kilt  and  philibeg, 

What  stride  was  ever  bolder 
Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 

Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder? 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  flowing ; 
The  hunts  where  gallant  hearts  were  game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The  raid  that  swooped  with  sword  and  flame, 

Give  place  to  "  law  and  order." 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing  ; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning 
While  fluttering  round  the  beacon-light,  — 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story. 


242  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

'T  is  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together ; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isles, 

Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether  ; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing  words, 

That  set  the  pulses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 

Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle, 
We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ! 


ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  EIRTHDAY 

CELEBRATION    OF  THE    MERCANTILE    LIBRARY    ASSOCIA 
TION,   FEBRUARY   22,  1856 

WELCOME  to  the  day  returning, 

Dearer  still  as  ages  flow, 
While  the  torch  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Long  as  Freedom's  altars  glow ! 
See  the  hero  whom  it  gave  us 

Slumbering  on  a  mother's  breast ; 
For  the  arm  he  stretched  to  save  us, 

Be  its  morn  forever  blest ! 


ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY     243 

Hear  the  tale  of  youthful  glory, 

While  of  Britain's  rescued  band 
Friend  and  foe  repeat  the  story, 

Spread  his  fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Where  the  red  cross,  proudly  streaming, 

Flaps  above  the  frigate's  deck, 
Where  the  golden  lilies,  gleaming, 

Star  the  watch-towers  of  Quebec. 

Look  !     The  shadow  on  the  dial 

Marks  the  hour  of  deadlier  strife  ; 
Days  of  terror,  years  of  trial, 

Scourge  a  nation  into  life. 
Lo,  the  youth,  become  her  leader ! 

All  her  baffled  tyrants  yield ; 
Through  his  arm  the  Lord  hath  freed  her ; 

Crown  him  on  the  tented  field  ! 

Vain  is  Empire's  mad  temptation ! 

Not  for  him  an  earthly  crown  ! 
He  whose  sword  hath  freed  a  nation 

Strikes  the  offered  sceptre  down. 
See  the  throneless  Conqueror  seated, 

Ruler  by  a  people's  choice  ; 
See  the  Patriot's  task  completed  ; 

Hear  the  Father's  dying  voice  I 

'*  By  the  name  that  you  inherit, 
By  the  sufferings  you  recall, 
Cherish  the  fraternal  spirit ; 
Love  your  country  first  of  all  I 


244  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Listen  not  to  idle  questions 

If  its  bands  may  be  untied ; 
Doubt  the  patriot  whose  suggestions 

Strive  a  nation  to  divide !  " 

Father !     We,  whose  ears  have  tingled 

With  the  discord-notes  of  shame,  — 
We,  whose  sires  their  blood  have  mingled 

In  the  battle's  thunder-flame,  — 
Gathering,  while  this  holy  morning 

Lights  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Hear  thy  counsel,  heed  thy  warning ; 

Trust  us,  while  we  honor  thee ! 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER 

JANUARY  18,  1856 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show ! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops  ; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot ; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 

Some  larger  soul  hath  lived  and  wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 

The  boundless  realms  of  deed  and  thought,  - 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL    WEBSTER      245 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by  : 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines ; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain ; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines  ; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes  :  a  boy  appears ; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun, 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust ;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid 
His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 

And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow  ;  behold  ! 

Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould  ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 


246  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free ; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew, 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived ;  in  peace  he  died  ; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 

Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 

And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids ; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep ! 


THE    VOICELESS  247 


THE  VOICELESS 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them  :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  I 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story,  — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  longed-for  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 


248  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 


THE  TWO  STREAMS 

BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending,  as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea ! 


THE  PROMISE  249 


THE  PROMISE 

NOT  charity  we  ask, 
Nor  yet  thy  gift  refuse  ; 
Please  thy  light  fancy  with  the  easy  task 
Only  to  look  and  choose. 

The  little-heeded  toy 
That  wins  thy  treasured  gold 
May  be  the  dearest  memory,  holiest  joy, 
Of  coming  years  untold. 

Heaven  rains  on  every  heart, 
But  there  its  showers  divide, 
The  drops  of  mercy  choosing,  as  they  part, 
The  dark  or  glowing  side. 

One  kindly  deed  may  turn 
The  fountain  of  thy  soul 

To  love's  sweet  day-star,  that  shall  o'er  thee  burn 
Long  as  its  currents  roll ! 

The  pleasures  thou  hast  planned,  — 
Where  shall  their  memory  be 
When  the  white  angel  with  the  freezing  hand 
Shall  sit  and  watch  by  thee  ? 

Living,  thou  dost  not  live, 
If  mercy's  spring  run  dry  ; 

What  Heaven  has  lent  thee  wilt  thou  freely  give, 
Dying,  thou  shalt  not  die ! 


250  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

HE  promised  even  so  ! 
To  thee  his  lips  repeat,  — 
Behold,  the  tears  that  soothed  thy  sister's  woe 
Have  washed  thy  Master's  feet ! 
March  20,  1859. 


AVIS 

I  MAT  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  — 

Alas !  thy  forehead  never  knew 
The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 

Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 

Daughter  of  want  and  wrong  and  woe, 

I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 
Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing  flow 

By  Mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 

"  Avis !  "  —  With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 

At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 
The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 

Drew  near  to  greet  us,  —  spoke,  and  smiled. 

God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win,  — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

''  And  who  is  Avis  ?  "  —  Hear  the  tale 

The  calm-voiced  matrons  gravely  tell,  — 
The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 


A  vis  251 

With  the  lost  children  running  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  relate 

The  little  suffering  outcast's  ail  ? 
Not  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate 

So  turned  the  rose-wreathed  revellers  pale. 

Ah,  veil  the  living  death  from  sight 
That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye  ! 

The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 
The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 

Take  her,  dread  Angel !     Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — 

No  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 
The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own  ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall  learn 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 
Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 


252  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Still  battling  for  the  spoil  of  Life 
While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death  ;  the  prize  is  won  ; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast ! 

Her  task  is  done  ;  no  voice  divine 

Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly  fame. 

No  eye  can  see  the  aureole  shine 

That  rings  her  brow  with  heavenly  flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 
Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 

When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 
With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 
The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 

And  let  thine  image  live  alone 
To  hallow  this  unstudied  song ! 


THE  LIVING  TEMPLE 

NOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 


THE  LIVING   TEMPLE  253 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  I 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 


254  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds  ; 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads ! 

O  Father !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms ! 


AT  A   BIRTHDAY   FESTIVAL 

TO   J.    E.    LOWELL 

WE  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  — 
For  what  have  years  to  bring 

But  larger  floods  of  love  and  light, 
And  sweeter  songs  to  sing? 


AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL  255 

We  will  not  drown  in  wordy  praise 

The  kindly  thoughts  that  rise  ; 
If  Friendship  own  one  tender  phrase, 

He  reads  it  in  our  eyes. 

We  need  not  waste  our  school-boy  art 

To  gild  this  notch  of  Time ;  — 
Forgive  me  if  my  wayward  heart 

Has  throbbed  in  artless  rhyme. 

Enough  for  him  the  silent  grasp 

That  knits  us  hand  in  hand, 
And  he  the  bracelet's  radiant  clasp 

That  locks  our  circling  band. 

Strength  to  his  hours  of  manly  toil  1 

Peace  to  his  starlit  dreams ! 
Who  loves  alike  the  furrowed  soil, 

The  music-haunted  streams ! 

Sweet  smiles  to  keep  forever  bright 

The  sunshine  on  his  lips, 
And  faith  that  sees  the  ring  of  light 

Round  nature's  last  eclipse  I 
February  22,  1859. 


256  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

A    BIRTHDAY  TRIBUTE 

TO    J.   F.    CLARKE 

WHO  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead, 

Through  pastures  green,  the  Master's  sheep  ? 
What  guileless  "  Israelite  indeed  " 

The  folded  flock  may  watch  and  keep  ? 

He  who  with  manliest  spirit  joins 
The  heart  of  gentlest  human  mould, 

With  burning  light  and  girded  loins, 
To  guide  the  flock,  or  watch  the  fold ; 

True  to  all  Truth  the  world  denies, 
Not  tongue-tied  for  its  gilded  sin ; 

Not  always  right  in  all  men's  eyes, 
But  faithful  to  the  light  within ; 

Who  asks  no  meed  of  earthly  fame, 
Who  knows  no  earthly  master's  call, 

Who  hopes  for  man,  through  guilt  and  shame, 
Still  answering,  "  God  is  over  all " ; 

Who  makes  another's  grief  his  own, 
Whose  smile  lends  joy  a  double  cheer ; 

Where  lives  the  saint,  if  such  be  known  ?  — 
Speak  softly,  —  such  an  one  is  here ! 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  thou  hast  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  ; 


THE  GRAY  CHIEF  257 

Yet,  o'er  thee,  bright  with  beams  unshorn, 
The  sun  still  shows  thine  onward  way. 

To  thee  our  fragrant  love  we  bring, 
In  buds  that  April  half  displays, 

Sweet  first-born  angels  of  the  spring, 
Caught  in  their  opening  hymn  of  praise. 

What  though  our  faltering  accents  fail, 
•    Our  captives  know  their  message  well, 
Our  words  unbreathed  their  lips  exhale, 
And  sigh  more  love  than  ours  can  telL 
April  4,  1860. 


THE  GEAY  CHIEF 

FOB    THE    MEETING    OF   THE    MASSACHUSETTS    MEDICAL 
SOCIETY,  1859 

'T  is  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er, 

And  crown  with  honest  praise 
The  gray  old  chief,  who  strikes  no  more 

The  blow  of  better  days. 

Before  the  true  and  trusted  sage 

With  willing  hearts  we  bend, 
When  years  have  touched  with  hallowing  age 

Our  Master,  Guide,  and  Friend. 

For  all  his  manhood's  labor  past, 

For  love  and  faith  long  tried, 
His  age  is  honored  to  the  last, 

Though  strength  and  will  have  died. 


258  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

But  when,  untamed  by  toil  and  strife, 
Full  in  our  front  he  stands, 

The  torch  of  light,  the  shield  of  life, 
Still  lifted  in  his  hands, 

No  temple,  though  its  walls  resound 
With  bursts  of  ringing  cheers, 

Can  hold  the  honors  that  surround 
His  manhood's  twice-told  years ! 


THE  LAST  LOOK 

W.   W.    SWAIN 

BEHOLD  —  not  him  we  knew  ! 
This  was  the  prison  which  his  soul  looked  through, 
Tender,  and  brave,  and  true. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard ; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear  familiar  word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 

He  spake  with  poet's  tongue  ; 
Living,  for  him  the  minstrel's  lyre  was  strung : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung ! 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain ; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr-chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul,  —  in  vain  ! 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island  lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 


THE  LAST  LOOK  259 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had  gone  before 
To  that  untrodden  shore ! 

Lo,  through  its  leafy  screen, 
A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  half  unseen ! 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 

Where  the  calm  shadows  that  his  soul  loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed ; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the  morning's  light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Night ! 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 
Close  by  those  mounds  which  hold  his  loved,  his 

own, — 
Lonely,  but  not  alone. 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 
Till    Heaven's    bright   watchers   slumber   in    the 

sky 

And  Death  himself  shall  die ! 
NACSHON,  September  22,  1858. 


260  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 


IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  WENTWORTH 
UPHAM,  JR. 

HE  was  all  sunshine  ;  in  his  face 
The  very  soul  of  sweetness  shone ; 

Fairest  and  gentlest  of  his  race ; 
None  like  him  we  can  call  our  own. 

Something  there  was  of  one  that  died 
In  her  fresh  spring-time  long  ago, 

Our  first  dear  Mary,  angel-eyed, 
Whose  smile  it  was  a  bliss  to  know. 

Something  of  her  whose  love  imparts 
Such  radiance  to  her  day's  decline, 

We  feel  its  twilight  in  our  hearts 
Bright  as  the  earliest  morning-shine. 

Yet  richer  strains  our  eye  could  trace 
That  made  our  plainer  mould  more  fair, 

That  curved  the  lip  with  happier  grace, 
That  waved  the  soft  and  silken  hair. 

Dust  unto  dust !  the  lips  are  still 
That  only  spoke  to  cheer  and  bless  ; 

The  folded  hands  lie  white  and  chill 
Unclasped  from  sorrow's  last  caress. 

Leave  him  in  peace  ;  he  will  not  heed 
These  idle  tears  we  vainly  pour, 


MARTHA  261 

Give  back  to  earth  the  fading  weed 
Of  mortal  shape  his  spirit  wore. 

"  Shall  I  not  weep  my  heartstrings  torn, 

My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 
My  youth  uncrowned,  my  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  ?  " 

O  Mary !  one  who  bore  thy  name, 

Whose  Friend  and  Master  was  divine, 

Sat  waiting  silent  till  He  came, 

Bowed  down  in  speechless  grief  like  thine. 

"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?  "     "  Come,"  they  say, 

Pointing  to  where  the  loved  one  slept ; 
Weeping,  the  sister  led  the  way,  — 
And,  seeing  Mary,  "  Jesus  wept." 

He  weeps  with  thee,  with  all  that  mourn, 
And  He  shall  wipe  thy  streaming  eyes 

Who  knew  all  sorrows,  woman-born,  — 
Trust  in  his  word  ;  thy  dead  shall  rise  I 
April  15,  1860. 

MARTHA 

DEED  JANUARY   7,   1861 

SEXTON  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

ToU  the  bell!  toll  the  bell! 
Her  weary  hands  their  labor  cease ; 
Good  night,  poor  Martha,  —  sleep  in  peace  1 
ToU  the  bell ! 


262  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Sexton !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toU  the  bell ! 
For  many  a  year  has  Martha  said, 
"  I  'm  old  and  poor,  —  would  I  were  dead  I " 
ToU  the  beU ! 

Sexton !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

ToU  the  bell!  toll  the  beU! 
She  'U  bring  no  more,  by  day  or  night, 
Her  basket  fuU  of  linen  white. 
ToU  the  beU ! 

Sexton !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

ToUthebeU!  toll  the  beU! 
'T  is  fitting  she  should  lie  below 
A  pure  white  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
ToUthebeU! 

Sexton !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

ToUthebeU!  toUthebeU! 
Sleep,  Martha,  sleep,  to  wake  in  light, 
Where  aU  the  robes  are  stainless  white. 
ToUthebeU! 


MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD 
COLLEGE 

1857 

I  THANK  you,  MR.  PRESIDENT,  you  've  kindly  broke 
the  ice ; 

Virtue  should  always  be  the  first,  —  I  'm  only  SEC 
OND  VICE  — 


ALUMNI   OF  HARVARD   COLLEGE       263 

(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that 's  made  to 

hold  its  jaw 
Till  some  old  file  has  played  away  upon  an  ancient 

saw). 

Sweet  brothers  by  the  Mother's  side,  the  babes  of 

days  gone  by, 
All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose   milk  is 

never  dry, 
We  come  again,  like  half -grown  boys,  and  gather  at 

her  beck 
About  her  knees,  and   on  her  lap,  and  clinging 

round  her  neck. 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in  her  ancient 

chair, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  red  and  green  she  always 

loved  to  wear. 
Her  eye  has  all  its   radiant  youth,  her  cheek  its 

morning  flame  ; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we  go,  hers  flourish  still  the 

same. 

We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour,  and  far  away 

we  've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some  lingering 

in  the  shade ; 
And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down  where 

darker  shadows  fall,  — 
Dear  as  her  loving  voice  may  be,  they  cannot  hear 

its  call. 


264  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

What  miles  we  've  travelled  since  we  shook  the 
dew-drops  from  our  shoes 

We  gathered  on  this  classic  green,  so  famed  for 
heavy  dues ! 

How  many  boys  have  joined  the  game,  how  many 
slipped  away, 

Since  we  Ve  been  running  up  and  down,  and  hav 
ing  out  our  play ! 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief,  and  one 

with  gown  and  band, 
One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  digging  in  the 

sand, 
One  flying  paper  kites   on   change,  one   planting 

little  pills,  — 
The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well  known  as 

little  biUs. 

What  maidens  met  us  on  our  way,  and  clasped  us 
hand  in  hand ! 

What  cherubs,  —  not  the  legless  kind,  that  fly,  but 
never  stand ! 

How  many  a  youthful  head  we  've  seen  put  on  its 
silver  crown ! 

What  sudden  changes  back  again  to  youth's  em 
purpled  brown ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and  broader 

lights  have  shone, 
Since  others  lit  their  midnight  lamps  where  once 

we  trimmed  our  own ; 
A  thousand  trains  that  flap  the  sky  with  flags  of 

rushing  fire, 


ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD   COLLEGE       265 

And,  throbbing  in  the  Thunderer's  hand,  Thought's 
milliou-chorded  lyre. 

We  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly  beyond  the 

mountain  bars, 
Till,  glittering  o'er  the  Western  wave,  they  joined 

the  setting  stars  ; 
And  ocean  trodden  into  paths  that  trampling  giants 

ford, 
To  find  the  planet's  vertebras  and  sink  its  spinal  cord. 

We  've  tried  reform,  —  and  chloroform,  —  and  both 

have  turned  our  brain  ; 
When  France  called  up  the  photograph,  we  roused 

the  foe  to  pain  ; 
Just  so  those  earlier  sages  shared  the  chaplet  of 

renown,  — 
Hers  sent  a  bladder  'to   the  clouds,  ours  brought 

their  lightning  down. 

We  've  seen  the  little  tricks  of  life,  its  varnish  and 
veneer, 

Its  stucco-fronts  of  character  flake  off  and  dis 
appear, 

We  've  learned  that  oft  the  brownest  hands  will 
heap  the  biggest  pile, 

And  met  with  many  a  "  perfect  brick  "  beneath  a 
rimless  "  tile." 

What  dreams  we  've  had  of  deathless  name,  as 

scholars,  statesmen,  bards, 
While  Fame,  the  lady  with  the  trump,  held  up  her 

picture  cards ! 


266  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

Till,  having   nearly  played   our   game,  she  gayly 

whispered,  "  Ah ! 

I  said  you  should   be  something  grand,  —  you  '11 
soon  be  grandpapa." 

Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day,  the  young 

must  take  their  turn  ; 
There  's  something  always  to  forget,  and  something 

still  to  learn ; 
But  how  to  tell  what's  old  or  young,  the  tap-root 

from  the  sprigs, 
Since  Florida  revealed  her  fount  to  Ponce  de  Leon 

Twiggs  ? 

The  wisest  was  a  Freshman  once,  just  freed  from 

bar  and  bolt, 

As  noisy  as  a  kettle-drum,  as  leggy  as  a  colt ; 
Don't  be  too  savage  with  the  boys,  —  the  Primer 

does  not  say 
The  kitten  ought  to  go  to  church  because  the  cat 

doth  prey. 

The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the  rule  of 

three  ; 

Non  constat  that  A.  M.  must  prove  as  busy  as  A.  B. 
When  Wise  the  father  tracked  the  son,  ballooning 

through  the  skies, 
He  taught  a  lesson  to  the  old,  —  go  thou  and  do 

like  Wise  I 

Now  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth,  of  high  or 
low  degree, 


THE  PARTING  SONG  267 

Remember  how  we  only  get  one   annual  out   of 

three, 
And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three  dinners 

into  one 
Must   cut  their  salads  mighty  short,  and   pepper 

well  with  fun. 

I  've  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it 's  time  for  me  to 

set ; 
A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am  lingering 

yet, 

As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk-and-watery 

moon 
Stains  with  its  dim  and   fading  ray  the  lustrous 

blue  of  noon. 

Farewell !  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake  our  an 
cient  hall ; 

God  save  the  Queen,  —  whose  throne  is  here,  —  the 
Mother  of  us  all ! 

Till  dawns  the  great  commencement-day  on  every 
shore  and  sea, 

And  "  Expectantur "  all  mankind,  to  take  their 
last  Degree  ! 


THE  PARTING  SONG 

FESTIVAL  OF  THE  ALUMNI,  1857 

THE  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray 
On  Harvard's  holy  ground  ; 

The  Matron  calls,  the  sons  obey, 
And  gather  smiling  round. 


268  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

CHORUS. 

Then  old  and  young  together  stand, 
The  sunshine  and  the  snow, 

As  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
We  sing  before  we  go  ! 

Her  hundred  opening  doors  have  swung ; 

Through  every  storied  hall 
The  pealing  echoes  loud  have  rung, 

"  Thrice  welcome  one  and  all !  " 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

We  floated  through  her  peaceful  bay, 

To  sail  life's  stormy  seas  ; 
But  left  our  anchor  where  it  lay 

Beneath  her  green  old  trees. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

As  now  we  lift  its  lengthening  chain, 

That  held  us  fast  of  old, 
The  rusted  rings  grow  bright  again,  — 

Their  iron  turns  to  gold. 

Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

Though  scattered  ere  the  setting  sun, 
As  leaves  when  wild  winds  blow, 

Our  home  is  here,  our  hearts  are  one, 
Till  Charles  forgets  to  flow. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


NATIONAL  SANITARY  ASSOCIATION     269 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL 
SANITARY  ASSOCIATION 

1860 

WHAT  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ? 

The  bitter  drug  we  buy  and  sell, 
The  brands  that  scorch,  the  blades  that  shine, 

The  scars  we  leave,  the  "  cures  "  we  tell  ? 

Are  these  thy  glories,  holiest  Art,  — 
The  trophies  that  adorn  thee  best,  — 

Or  but  thy  triumph's  meanest  part,  — 

Where  mortal  weakness  stands  confessed  ? 

We  take  the  arms  that  Heaven  supplies 
For  Life's  long  battle  with  Disease, 

Taught  by  our  various  need  to  prize 
Our  frailest  weapons,  even  these. 

But  ah !  when  Science  drops  her  shield  — 
Its  peaceful  shelter  proved  in  vain  — 

And  bares  her  snow-white  arm  to  wield 
The  sad,  stern  ministry  of  pain ; 

When  shuddering  o'er  the  fount  of  life, 
She  folds  her  heaven-anointed  wings, 

To  lift  unmoved  the  glittering  knife 
That  searches  all  its  crimson  springs ; 

When,  faithful  to  her  ancient  lore, 
She  thrusts  aside  her  fragrant  balm 


270  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

For  blistering  juice,  or  cankering  ore, 
And  tames  them  till  they  cure  or  calm ; 

When  in  her  gracious  hand  are  seen 
The  dregs  and  scum  of  earth  and  seas, 

Her  kindness  counting  all  things  clean 
That  lend  the  sighing  sufferer  ease  ; 

Though  on  the  field  that  Death  has  won, 
She  save  some  stragglers  in  retreat ;  — 

These  single  acts  of  mercy  done 
Are  but  confessions  of  defeat. 

What  though  our  tempered  poisons  save 
Some  wrecks  of  life  from  aches  and  ails ; 

Those  grand  specifics  Nature  gave 

Were  never  poised  by  weights  or  scales ! 

God  lent  his  creatures  light  and  air, 
And  waters  open  to  the  skies  ; 

Man  locks  him  in  a  stifling  lair, 

And  wonders  why  his  brother  dies ! 

In  vain  our  pitying  tears  are  shed, 
In  vain  we  rear  the  sheltering  pile 

Where  Art  weeds  out  from  bed  to  bed 
The  plagues  we  planted  by  the  mile ! 

Be  that  the  glory  of  the  past ; 

With  these  our  sacred  toils  begin  : 
So  flies  in  tatters  from  its  mast 

The  yellow  flag  of  sloth  and  sin, 


BURNS  CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION     271 

And  lo  !  the  starry  folds  reveal 

The  blazoned  truth  we  hold  so  dear : 

To  guard  is  better  than  to  heal,  — 
The  shield  is  nobler  than  the  spear ! 


FOR   THE    BURNS   CENTENNIAL   CELEBRA 
TION 

JANUARY  25,  1859 

His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating,  — 

Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
In  light  and  flame  repeating ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 

One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 
As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 

Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean ; 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 

Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river, 
The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 

With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 

The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 
And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soul, 

We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  flights 
With  Corydon  and  Phillis,  — 


272  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

While  Wolfe  was  climbing  Abraham's  heights 
To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  — 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 

The  babe  beneath  the  sheeling, 
Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 

Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 

And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 
Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blends 

With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 

We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 

Though  never  tone  so  tender  ; 
We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 

His  wasteful  self-surrender. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine,  — 
His  Muse  was  born  of  woman,  — 

His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 
Was  ever  heart  more  human? 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this : 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth  and  want,  through  woe  and  bliss, 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature  ! 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted  ; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted ! 


AT  A    MEETING   OF  FRIENDS          273 

Ay  !     Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 

Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 
His  virtues,  frailties,  HE  may  scan, 

Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 
Of  him,  though  dead,  undying  ; 

Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 
Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story,  — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory ! 


AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS 

AUGUST  29,  1859 

I  REMEMBER  —  why,  yes !  God  bless  me !  and  was 
it  so  long  ago  ? 

I  fear  I  'm  growing  forgetful,  as  old  folks  do,  you 
know  ; 

It  must  have  been  in  'forty  —  I  would  say  'thirty- 
nine  — 

We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a  friend  of 
mine. 

He  said,  "  Well  now,  old  fellow,  I  'm  thinking  that 

you  and  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older  by  and 

by; 


274  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

What  though  the  bright  blue  ocean  is  smooth  as 

a  pond  can  be, 
There  is  always  a  line  of  breakers  to  fringe  the 

broadest  sea. 

"  "We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that  is  nothing 

strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our  years  like 

change ; 
But  creeping  up  towards  the  forties,  as  fast  as  the 

old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem  to  change 

a  bill." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  said,  "  old  fellow ;  you  speak  the 

solemn  truth  ; 
A  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  likewise  keep 

his  youth ; 
But  what  if  the  ten  years  coming  shall  silver-streak 

my  hair,      * 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty ;  of  course  I  shall 

not  care. 

"  At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired  of  fun  and 

noise ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-twenties  and  love  to 

the  silly  boys  ; 
No  foppish  tricks  at  forty,  no  pinching  of  waists 

and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good  thick 

worsted  hose." 


AT  A   MEETING   OF  FRIENDS          275 

But  one  fine   August  morning   I   found    myself 

awake : 
My  birthday :  —  By  Jove,  I  'm  forty  !      Yes,  forty, 

and  no  mistake ! 
Why,  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think  I  used  to 

hold, 
That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow  would 

then  be  old ! 

But  that  is  the  young  folks'  nonsense ;  they  're  full 

of  their  foolish  stuff ; 
A  man 's  in  his  prime  at  forty,  —  I  see  that  plain 

enough ; 
At  fifty  a  man  is  wrinkled,  and  may  be  bald  or 

gray; 
/  call  men   old   at   fifty,   in  spite    of    all    they 

say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist  and  rain 

and  shine ; 
Its   mornings   are  slowly   counted    and  creep  to 

twenty-nine, 
And  when  on  the  western  summits  the  fading  light 

appears, 
It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of  my  fifty 

years. 

There  have  been  both  men   and  women   whose 

hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But  there  never  was  one  of  fifty  that  loved  to  say 

"I'm  old"; 


276  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

So  any  elderly  person  that  strives  to  shirk  his  years, 
Make  him  stand  up  at  a  table  and  try  him  by  his 
peers. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,  my  jury  gathered  round  ; 

Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not  yet  silver- 
crowned, 

Ready  to  meet  your  verdict,  waiting  to  hear  it 
told; 

Guilty  of  fifty  summers  ;  speak !  Is  the  verdict 
old? 

No !  say  that  his  hearing  fails  him ;   say  that  his 

sight  grows  dim ; 
Say  that  he 's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak  in  back 

and  limb, 
Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  pleading,  to  make 

amends, 
The   youth  of   his   fifty  summers  he  finds  in  his 

twenty  friends. 


BOSTON  COMMON:   THEEE  PICTURES 

FOB    THE   FAIR    IN   AID   OF  THE  FUND   TO    PROCURE 
BALL'S  STATUE  OF  WASHINGTON 

1630 

ALL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 

And  straggling  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 

With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that  turn, 
Bent  eastward  by  the  mastering  breeze,  — 


BOSTON  COMMON  277 

"With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 

A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark !  the  trodden  branches  crack ; 

A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream  ; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back ; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream  ; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer  ; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull  I 

1774 

The  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "  rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come : 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  strin 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 


278  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

186— 

Around  the  green,  in  morning  light, 

The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 
And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays  ; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth  !  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings  ! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands  ; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 
November  14,  1859. 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE   SEA 

A  NIGHTMARE   DREAM   BY    DAYLIGHT 

Do  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea  ? 

Have  you  met  with  that  dreadful  old  man  ? 
If  you  have  n't  been  caught,  you  will  be,  you  will 
be; 

For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by  your  throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale  ; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight  by  the  coat,  by  the  coat, 

Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA  279 

There 's  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye,  in  his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands  ; 
You  cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get  by, 

If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he  stands. 

Oh,  you  're  grabbed !     See  his  claw  on  your  sleeve, 

on  your  sleeve ! 

It  is  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea! 
You  're  a  Christian,  no  doubt  you  believe,  you  be 
lieve  : 
You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be  ! 

Is    the    breakfast-hour    past?     They    must   wait, 

they  must  wait, 

While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down, 
While  the  Johnny-cake  burns  on  the  grate,  on  the 

grate, 
And  the  toast  is  done  frightfully  brown. 

Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep ;  let  it  cool,  let  it  cool, 

And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret, 
And  children  half -starved  go  to  school,  go  to  school ; 

He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

Hark  !    the    bell  for   the   train  I    "  Come   along  ! 

Come  along ! 

For  there  is  n't  a  second  to  lose." 
"  ALL   ABOARD  !  "  (He  holds   on.)  "  Fsht !  ding- 

dong  !  Fsht !  ding-dong  !  "  — 
You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

There  's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a  peach,  like 
a  peach, 


280  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

That  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  church ;  — 
But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech,  like  a  leech, 
And  you  leave  your  lost  bride  in  the  lurch. 

There  's  a  babe  in   a  fit,  —  hurry   quick !     hurry 
quick ! 

To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can  ! 
The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while  you  stick, 

In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man ! 

I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore,  of  the 
Bore  ; 

The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know  ; 
I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at  my  door ; 

I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow  ; 

I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend,  by  the 
friend, 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  bur ; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end,  without  end, 

Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir  : 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I  shake,  and  I 
shake, 

At  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,  and  I  take,  and  I  take, 

To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can  ! 

Oh  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea ! 

He 's  come  back  like  the  Wandering  Jew  ! 
He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon  me,  upon  me,  — 

And  be  sure  that  he  '11  have  it  on  you ! 


INTERNATIONAL   ODE  281 

INTERNATIONAL  ODE 
OUB  FATHERS'  LAND 

GOD  bless  our  Fathers'  Land ! 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 

One  with  our  own  ! 
From  all  her  foes  defend, 
Be  her  brave  People's  Friend, 
On  all  her  realms  descend, 

Protect  her  Throne ! 

Father,  with  loving  care 

Guard  Thou  her  kingdom's  Heir, 

Guide  all  his  ways : 
Thine  arm  his  shelter  be, 
From  him  by  land  and  sea 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee, 

Prolong  his  days ! 

Lord,  let  War's  tempest  cease, 
Fold  the  whole  Earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings ! 
Make  all  thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  the  sun, 
Till  Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings  I 


282  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE 

A  SENTIMENT  OFFERED  AT  THE  DINNER  TO  H.  I.  H.  THE 
PRINCE  NAPOLEO.N,  AT  THE  REVERE  HOUSE,  SEPTEM 
BER  25,1861 

THE  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song ! 

Her  name  your  hearts  divine ; 
To  her  the  banquet's  vows  belong 

Whose  breasts  have  poured  its  wine ; 
Our  trusty  friend,  our  true  ally 

Through  varied  change  and  chance : 
So,  fill  your  flashing  goblets  high,  — 

I  give  you,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  1 

Above  our  hosts  in  triple  folds 

The  selfsame  colors  spread, 
Where  Valor's  faithful  arm  upholds 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
Alike  each  nation's  glittering  crest 

Reflects  the  morning's  glance,  — 
Twin  eagles,  soaring  east  and  west : 

Once  more,  then,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  1 

Sister  in  trial !  who  shall  count 
Thy  generous  friendship's  claim, 

Whose  blood  ran  mingling  in  the  fount 
That  gave  our  land  its  name, 

Till  Yorktown  saw  in  blended  line 
Our  conquering  arms  advance, 


VIVE  LA   FRANCE  283 

And  victory's  double  garlands  twine 
Our  banners  ?    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

O  land  of  heroes  !  in  our  need 

One  gift  from  Heaven  we  crave 
To  stanch  these  wounds  that  vainly  bleed,  — 

The  wise  to  lead  the  brave  ! 
Call  back  one  Captain  of  thy  past 

From  glory's  marble  trance, 
Whose  name  shall  be  a  bugle-blast 

To  rouse  us !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Pluck  Conde's  baton  from  the  trench, 

Wake  up  stout  Charles  Martel, 
Or  find  some  woman's  hand  to  clench 

The  sword  of  La  Pucelle  ! 
Give  us  one  hour  of  old  Turenne,  — 

One  lift  of  Bayard's  lance,  — 
Nay,  call  Marengo's  Chief  again 

To  lead  us  !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Ah,  hush !  our  welcome  Guest  shall  hear 

But  sounds  of  peace  and  joy  ; 
No  angry  echo  vex  thine  ear, 

Fair  Daughter  of  Savoy  ! 
Once  more !  the  land  of  arms  and  arts, 

Of  glory,  grace,  romance  ; 
Her  love  lies  warm  in  all  our  hearts  : 

God  bless  her !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


284  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER 
CAROLINE 

SHE  has   gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in   passion  and 

pride,  — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side  ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our,  firmament's 

glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe ! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

We  can  never  forget  that  our   hearts  have  been 

one, — 

Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From   the   fountain  of   blood   with  the   finger  of 

flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch ; 
But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not  mean 

much." 
We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent 

threat ; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "  Forgive  and  for- 

get!" 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?  Have  its  altars  grown 
cold? 

Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  fore 
told  ? 

Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the 
chain 

That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT      285 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with 

their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows   black   as   it   rots   in  the 

soil, 
Till   the  wolves  and  the    catamounts  troop  from 

their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the 

waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife  !     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of 

snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky : 

Man    breaks  not   the    medal,  when  God  cuts  the 

die! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal  I 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

There   are   battles  with   Fate  that   can  never  be 

won ! 

The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For   its   blossoms   of   light   are   the   hope  of  the 

world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof ; 


286  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS 

But  when   your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have 

grown  sore, 

Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door  I 
March  25,  1861. 


POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

1851-1889 


BILL  AND  JOE 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow !  off  they  go !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill?     How  are  you,  Joe? 


288  POfifS  OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe ; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe ; 
You ' ve  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain ; 
You  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
"See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens ! 
Mad,  poor  old  boys!     That 's  what  it  means,' 
And  shake  their  heads ;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame? 
A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame; 
A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 
Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 
While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show! 


Bill  and  Joe 


*^^^J 


A   SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE"         289 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill;  — 

'Tis  poor  old  Joe's  "God  bless  you,  Bill!  " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe? 

No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hiejacet  Joe.     Hicjacet  Bill. 


A  SONG  OF   "TWENTY-NINE" 
1851 

THE  summer  dawn  is  breaking 

On  Auburn's  tangled  bowers, 
The  golden  light  is  waking 
On  Harvard's  ancient  towers; 
The  sun  is  in  the  sky 
That  must  see  us  do  or  die, 
Ere  it  shine  on  the  line 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29. 

At  last  the  day  is  ended, 
The  tutor  screws  no  more, 


290  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS  OF  '29 

By  doubt  and  fear  attended 
Each  hovers  round  the  door, 
Till  the  good  old  Prseses  cries, 

While  the  tears  stand  in  his  eyes, 
"You  have  passed,  and  are  classed 

With  the  BOYS  OF  '29." 

Not  long  are  they  in  making 

The  college  halls  their  own, 
Instead  of  standing  shaking, 
Too  bashful  to  be  known ; 

But  they  kick  the  Seniors'  shins 
Ere  the  second  week  begins, 
When  they  stray  in  the  way 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29. 

If  a  jolly  set  is  trolling 

The  last  Der  Freischutz  airs, 
Or  a  "cannon  bullet"  rolling 
Comes  bouncing  down  the  stairs, 
The  tutors,  looking  out, 
Sigh,  "Alas!  there  is  no  doubt, 
JT  is  the  noise  of  the  Boys 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

Four  happy  years  together, 

By  storm  and  sunshine  tried, 
In  changing  wind  and  weather, 
They  rough  it  side  by  side, 

Till  they  hear  their  Mother  cry, 
"You  are  fledged,  and  you  must  fly,' 
And  the  bell  tolls  the  knell 
Of  the  days  of  '29. 


A   SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE"          291 

Since  then,  in  peace  or  trouble, 
Full  many  a  year  has  rolled, 
And  life  has  counted  double 
The  days  that  then  we  told; 
Yet  we  '11  end  as  we  've  begun, 
For  though  scattered,  we  are  one, 
While  each  year  sees  us  here, 
Round  the  board  of  '29. 

Though  fate  may  throw  between  us 

The  mountains  or  the  sea, 
No  time  shall  ever  wean  us, 
No  distance  set  us  free; 

But  around  the  yearly  board, 
When  the  flaming  pledge  is  poured, 
It  shall  claim  every  name 
On  the  roll  of  '29. 

To  yonder  peaceful  ocean 

That  glows  with  sunset  fires, 
Shall  reach  the  warm  emotion 
This  welcome  day  inspires, 
Beyond  the  ridges  cold 
Where  a  brother  toils  for  gold, 
Till  it  shine  through  the  mine 
Eound  the  BOY  OF  '29. 

If  one  whom  fate  has  broken 
Shall  lift  a  moistened  eye, 
We  '11  say,  before  he  's  spoken  — 
"Old  Classmate,  don't  you  cry  I 
Here,  take  the  purse  I  hold, 
There  's  a  tear  upon  the  gold  — 


292         POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  >29, 

It  was  mine  —  it  is  thine  — 
A'n't  we  BOYS  OF  '29?  " 

As  nearer  still  and  nearer 
The  fatal  stars  appear, 
The  living  shall  be  dearer 
With  each  encircling  year, 
Till  a  few  old  men  shall  say, 
"We  remember  't  is  the  day  — 
Let  it  pass  with  a  glass 
For  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

As  one  by  one  is  falling 

Beneath  the  leaves  or  snows, 
Each  memory  still  recalling, 
The  broken  ring  shall  close, 
Till  the  nightwinds  softly  pass 
O'er  the  green  and  growing  grass, 
Where  it  waves  on  the  graves 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29! 


WHERE,  oh  where  are  the  visions  of  morning, 
Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime? 

Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warning, 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  oh  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile? 


AN  IMPROMPTU  293 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers,  — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 

Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy? 
Gone,  like  our  friend  Ti-oSas  w/cv;  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 

Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 
Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 

How  ye  have  faded  away ! 

Yet,  through  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty  river 

Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 
Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  forever, 

Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 

AN  IMPROMPTU 

Not  premeditated 

1853 

THE  clock  has  struck  noon;  ere  it  thrice  tell  the 

hours 
We  shall  meet  round  the  table  that  blushes  with 

flowers, 


294          POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

And  I  shall  blush  deeper  with  shame-driven  blood 
That  I  came  to  the  banquet  and  brought  not  a  bud. 

Who  cares  that  his  verse  is  a  beggar  in  art 

If  you  see  through  its  rags  the  full  throb  of  his 

heart? 

Who  asks  if  his  comrade  is  battered  and  tanned 
When  he  feels  his  warm  soul  in  the  clasp  of  his 

hand? 

No !  be  it  an  epic,  or  be  it  a  line, 

The  Boys  will  all  love  it  because  it  is  mine ; 

I  sung  their  last  song  on  the  morn  of  the  day 

That  tore  from  their  lives  the  last  blossom  of  May. 

It  is  not  the  sunset  that  glows  in  the  wine, 
But  the  smile  that  beams  over  it,  makes  it  divine ; 
I  scatter  these  drops,  and  behold,  as  they  fall, 
The  day-star  of  memory  shines  through  them  all ! 

And  these  are  the  last ;  they  are  drops  that  I  stole 
From  a  wine-press  that  crushes  the  life  from  the 

soul, 
But  they  ran  through  my  heart  and  they  sprang  to 

my  brain 
Till  our  twentieth  sweet  summer  was  smiling  again ! 


THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS  295 

THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS 
1854 

OH  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring! 
I  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 

Than  reign,  a  gray -beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom -written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 

From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame! 
Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 

Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?  " 

"  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind ! 
Without  thee  what  were  life? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 

I  '11  take —  my  —  precious —  wife !  " 


296          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS  OF  '29 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

The  man  would  be  a  boy  againy 
And  be  a  husband  too  ! 

"And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years." 

"Why,  yes;  "  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys; 
"I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys. " 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen, — 

"  Why,  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too !  " 


And  so  I  laughed,  — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


REMEMBER  —  FORGET 

1855 

AlO>  what  shall  be  the  song  to-night, 
If  song  there  needs  must  be? 

If  every  year  that  brings  us  here 
Must  steal  an  hour  from  me? 


REMEMBER  —  FORGET  297 

Say,  shall  it  ring  a  merry  peal, 

Or  heave  a  mourning  sigh 
O'er  shadows  cast,  by  years  long  past, 

On  moments  flitting  by? 

Nay,  take  the  first  unbidden  line 

The  idle  hour  may  send, 
No  studied  grace  can  mend  the  face 

That  smiles  as  friend  on  friend; 
The  balsam  oozes  from  the  pine, 

The  sweetness  from  the  rose, 
And  so,  unsought,  a  kindly  thought 

Finds  language  as  it  flows. 

The  years  rush  by  in  sounding  flight, 

I  hear  their  ceaseless  wings ; 
Their  songs  I  hear,  some  far,  some  near, 

And  thus  the  burden  rings: 
"The  morn  has  fled,  the  noon  has  past, 

The  sun  will  soon  be  set, 
The  twilight  fade  to  midnight  shade ; 

Remember  —  and  Forget!  " 

.Remember  all  that  time  has  brought  — 

The  starry  hope  on  high, 
The  strength  attained,  the  courage  gained, 

The  love  that  cannot  die. 
Forget  the  bitter,  brooding  thought,  — 

The  word  too  harshly  said, 
The  living  blame  love  hates  to  name, 

The  frailties  of  the  dead ! 


298          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

We  have  been  younger,  so  they  say, 

But  let  the  seasons  roll, 
He  doth  not  lack  an  almanac 

Whose  youth  is  in  his  soul. 
The  snows  may  clog  life's  iron  track, 

But  does  the  axle  tire, 
While  bearing  swift  through  bank  and  drift 

The  engine's  heart  of  fire? 

I  lift  a  goblet  in  my  hand ; 

If  good  old  wine  it  hold, 
An  ancient  skin  to  keep  it  in 

Is  just  the  thing,  we  're  told. 
We  're  grayer  than  the  dusty  flask, — 

We  're  older  than  our  wine ; 
Our  corks  reveal  the  "white  top"  seal, 

The  stamp  of  '29. 

Ah,  Boys!  we  clustered  in  the  dawn, 

To  sever  in  the  dark ; 
A  merry  crew,  with  loud  halloo, 

We  climbed  our  painted  bark ; 
We  sailed  her  through  the  four  years'  cruise, 

We  '11  sail  her  to  the  last, 
Our  dear  old  flag,  though  but  a  rag, 

Still  flying  on  her  mast. 

So  gliding  on,  each  winter's  gale 

Shall  pipe  us  all  on  deck, 
Till,  faint  and  few,  the  gathering  crew 

Creep  o'er  the  parting  wreck, 


OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER  299 

Her  sails  and  streamers  spread  aloft 

To  fortune's  rain  or  shine, 
Till  storm  or  sun  shall  all  be  one, 

And  down  goes  TWENTY-NINE! 


OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER 

1856 

You  '11  believe  me,  dear  boys,  't  is  a  pleasure  to 

rise, 

With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  darling  old  eyes ; 
To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear  the  same  tone 
Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years  that  have 

flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in  the  wall, 
My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight  of  you  all; 
If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on  the  sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in  my  hand. 

There  are  noontides  of  autumn  when  summer  re 
turns. 

Though  the  leaves  are  all  garnered  and  sealed  in 
their  urns, 

And  the  bird  on  his  perch,  that  was  silent  so  long, 

Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks  into  song. 

We  have  caged  the  young  birds  of  our  beautiful 

June; 
Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their  voices  in 

tune; 


300  POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like  these 
And  they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the  green-growing 
trees. 

The  voices  of  morning!  how  sweet  is  their  thrill 
When  the  shadows  have  turned,  and  the  evening 

'  O 

grows  still! 

The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with  age, 
But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twentieth  page ! 

Look  off  from  your  goblet  and  up  from  your  plate, 
Come,  take  the  last  journal,  and  glance  at  its  date : 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say  and  should 

do, 
If  the  6  were  a  9  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah,  no !  for  the  shapes  that  would  meet  with  us 

here, 

From  the  far  land  of  shadows,  are  ever  too  dear ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride  and  its 

charms, 
We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we  clasped  in  our 

arms. 

A  health  to  our  future  —  a  sigh  for  our  past, 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the  last; 
And  for  all  the  base  lies  that  the  almanacs  hold, 
While  we  've  youth  in  our  hearts  we  can   never 
grow  old! 


MARE  RUBRUM  301 

MARE  RUBRUM 

1858 

FLASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine, 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days, 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze  I 
The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade, 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 
By  nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream! 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay, 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die,  — 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim, 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  beauty!     Time  and  fortune's  wrong 
No  shape  nor  feature  may  withstand; 


302          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 
Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand; 

Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 
The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 

As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall; 
Here  rest,  their  keen  vibrations  mute, 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed, 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  wondrous  glass? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew? 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew? 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine, 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled,  by  winter's  snow ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee ! 


THE  BOYS  303 

THE  BOYS 
1859 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's 

spite ! 
Old  Tune  is  a  liar  !     We  're  twenty  to-night! 

We  're  twenty !     We  're  twenty  !     Who  says  we 

are  more? 
He 's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes !  —  show  him  the 

door ! 
"Gray  temples  at  twenty?"  —  Yes!  white  if  we 

please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's  nothing 

can  freeze! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?     Excuse  the  mistake! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have 

shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have 

been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old :  — 
That  boy  we    call    "Doctor,"  and  this  we  call 

"Judge;" 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all  fudge. 


304          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS  OF  '29 

That  fellow's  the  "Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the 
right; 

"Mr.  Mayor,''  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to 
night? 

That 's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when 
we  chaff; 

There's  the  "Reverend"  What's  his  name?  — 
don't  make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 
And  the  ROYAL,  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true  ! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in ;  a  good  joke  it  was, 
too! 

There 's   a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker 

brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain ; 
When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 
We  called  him  "The  Justice,"  but  now  he  's  "The 

Squire."  • 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "My  country,"  "of  thee!  " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?  — You  think  he  's  all 

fun; 

But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest 

of  all! 


LINES  305 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or 

with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we  ever  be 

men? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and 


Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away? 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  THE  BOYS  I 


LINES 

1860 

I'M  ashamed, — that's  the  fact, — it's  a  pitiful 

case, — 

Won't  any  kind  classmate  get  up  in  my  place? 
Just  remember  how  often  I  've  risen  before,  — 
I  blush  as  I  straighten  my  legs  on  the  floor ! 

There  are  stories,  once  pleasing,  too  many  times 
told,  — 

There  are  beauties  once  charming,  too  fearfully 
old,— 

There  are  voices  we  've  heard  till  we  know  them  so 
well, 

Though  they  talked  for  an  hour  they  'd  have  no 
thing  to  tell. 


306          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

Yet,  Classmates !  Friends !  Brothers !  Dear  blessed 

old  boys ! 

Made  one  by  a  lifetime  of  sorrows  and  joys, 
What  lips  have  such  sounds  as  the  poorest  of  these, 
Though  honeyed,  like  Plato's,  by  musical  bees? 

"What  voice  is  so  sweet  and  what  greeting  so  dear 
As  the  simple,  warm  welcome  that  waits  for  us 

here? 

The  love  of  our  boyhood  still  breathes  in  its  tone, 
And  our  hearts  throb  the  answer,  "He  's  one  of  our 

own!" 

Nay !  count  not  our  numbers ;  some  sixty  we  know, 
But  these  are  above,  and  those  under  the  snow; 
And  thoughts  are  still  mingled  wherever  we  meet 
For  those  we  remember  with  those  that  we  greet. 

We  have  rolled  on  life's  journey,  — how  fast  and 

how  far ! 

One  round  of  humanity's  many -wheeled  car, 
But  up-hill  and  down-hill,  through  rattle  and  rub, 
Old,  true  Twenty -niners!  we  've  stuck  to  our  hub! 

While  a  brain  lives  to  think,  or  a  bosom  to  feel, 
We  will  cling  to  it  still  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel! 
And  age,  as  it  chills  us,  shall  fasten  the  tire 
That  youth  fitted  round  in  his  circle  of  fire  I 


A    VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH       307 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH 

1861 
(JANUARY  THIRD) 

WE  sing  "Our  Country's"  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We  '11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set: 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 

'T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave; 
Enough  of  speech!  the  trumpet  rings; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm ! 


308          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt; 
'T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burns 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong! 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek, 

"We  played  with  Northern  fire !  " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right! 

God  keep  us  all !     Amen ! 


J.  D.  R. 

1862 

THE  friends  that  are,  and  friends  that  were, 

What  shallow  waves  divide ! 
I  miss  the  form  for  many  a  year 

Still  seated  at  my  side. 

I  miss  him,  yet  I  feel  him  still 

Amidst  our  faithful  band, 
As  if  not  death  itself  could  chill 

The  warmth  of  friendship's  hand. 

His  story  other  lips  may  tell,  — 

For  me  the  veil  is  drawn ; 
I  only  knew  he  loved  me  well, 

He  loved  me  —  and  is  gone ! 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION 

1862 

*T  is  midnight :  through  my  troubled  dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name?     Where  bound  ?  —  The  rocks  around 

Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 
— The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound: 

God  help  her  and  her  crew ! 


310          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay!  look  aloft!  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm -tost  bark! 
May  I  thy  peril  share? 

—  O  landsman,  there  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow! 

—  Enough !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 
I  know  the  sacred  sign ; 

Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 
Our  ocean  path  be  thine ! 

The  bark  sails  on;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 


VOYAGE   OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP   UNION     311 

And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 
That  hold  the  whaler's  helm! 

Still  on!     Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  rebel  cruiser  scars ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars! 

—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 
Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care ! 

Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  capes  of  Delaware  I 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "sacred  soil," 

And  this  is?  —  Fort  Monroe! 

The  breakers  roar,  —  how  bears  the  shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

Along  the  Hatteras  sands. 

—  Ha !  say  not  so !     I  see  its  glow ! 
Again  the  shoals  display 

The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 
The  Union  Stars  by  day! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 
The  wave  more  gently  flows, 


312          POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 
The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 

What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 
Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 

Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 
The  twins  of  Beauregard? 

What!  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall? 

On!  on!     Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee ! 
The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gales, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings: 
Hurrah !     Hurrah !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore! 


"CHOOSE  WHOM   YE   WILL  SERVE"    313 

« CHOOSE  YOU  THIS   DAY  WHOM  YE  WILL 
SERVE" 

1863 

YES,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while  you  hate 
The    self-ruling,    chain-breaking,    throne-shaking 

State! 
The  night-birds  dread  morning,  —  your  instinct  is 

true,  — 
The  day-star  of  Freedom  brings  midnight  for  you ! 

Why  plead  with  the  deaf  for  the  cause  of  mankind  ? 
The  owl  hoots  at  noon  that  the  eagle  is  blind ! 
We  ask  not  your  reasons,  —  't  were  wasting  our 

time,  — 
Our  life  is  a  menace,  our  welfare  a  crime ! 

We  have  battles  to  fight,  we  have  foes  to  subdue,  — 
Time  waits  not  for  us,  and  we  wait  not  for  you ! 
The  mower  mows  on,  though  the  adder  may  writhe 
And  the  copper-head  coil  round  the  blade  of  his 
scythe ! 

"No  sides  in  this  quarrel,"  your  statesmen  may 

urge, 
Of    school-house  and   wages   with   slave-pen   and 

scourge ! — 

No  sides  in  the  quarrel !  proclaim  it  as  well 
To  the  angels  that  fight  with  the  legions  of  hell! 

They  kneel  in  God's  temple,  the  North  and  the 
South, 


314          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

With  blood  on  each  weapon  and  prayers  in  each 
mouth. 

Whose  cry  shall  be  answered?  Ye  Heavens,  at 
tend 

The  lords  of  the  lash  as  their  voices  ascend! 

"  O  Lord,  we  are  shaped  in  the  image  of  Thee,  — 
Smite  down  the  base  millions  that  claim  to  be  free, 
And  lend  thy  strong  arm  to  the  soft-handed  race 
Who  eat  not  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  their 
face  I  " 

So  pleads  the  proud  planter.     What  echoes  are 

these? 

The  bay  of  his  bloodhound  is  borne  on  the  breeze, 
And,  lost  in  the  shriek  of  his  victim's  despair, 
His   voice    dies    unheard.  —  Hear    the   Puritan's 

prayer ! 

"  O  Lord,  that  didst  smother  mankind  in  thy  flood, 
The  sun  is  as  sackcloth,  the  moon  is  as  blood, 
The  stars  fall  to  earth  as  untimely  are  cast 
The  figs  from  the  fig-tree  that  shakes  in  the  blast ! 

"All  nations,  all  tribes  in  whose  nostrils  is  breath 
Stand  gazing  at  Sin  as  she  travails  with  Death! 
Lord,  strangle  the  monster  that  struggles  to  birth, 
Or    mock   us    no    more    with    thy  'Kingdom   on 
Earth  !  ' 

"If  Ammon  and  Moab  must  reign  in  the  land 
Thou  gavest  thine  Israel,  fresh  from  thy  hand, 


F.  w.  c.  315 

Call  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  out  of  their  graves 
To  be  the  new  gods  for  the  empire  of  slaves  I " 

Whose  God  will  ye  serve,  O  ye  rulers  of  men? 
Will  ye  build  you  new  shrines  in  the  slave-breed 
er's  den? 

Or  bow  with  the  children  of  light,  as  they  call 
On  the  Judge  of  the  Earth  and  the  Father  of  All? 

Choose   wisely,  choose    quickly,    for   time   moves 

apace,  — 

Each  day  is  an  age  in  the  life  of  our  race ! 
Lord,  lead  them  in  love,  ere  they  hasten  in  fear 
From  the  fast-rising  flood  that  shall  girdle   the 

sphere ! 

F.  W.  C. 

1864 

FAST  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring 

The  hour  of  fate  to  those  we  love, 
Each  pearl  that  leaves  the  broken  string 

Is  set  in  Friendship's  crown  above. 
As  narrower  grows  the  earthly  chain, 

The  circle  widens  in  the  sky ; 
These  are  our  treasures  that  remain, 

But  those  are  stars  that  beam  on  high. 

We  miss  —  oh,  how  we  miss !  —  his  face, — 
With  trembling  accents  speak  his  name. 

Earth  cannot  fill  his  shadowed  place 
From  all  her  rolls  of  pride  and  fame ; 


316          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Our  song  has  lost  the  silvery  thread 
That  carolled  through  his  jocund  lips; 

Our  laugh  is  mute,  our  smile  is  fled, 
And  all  our  sunshine  in  eclipse. 

And  what  and  whence  the  wondrous  charm 

That  kept  his  manhood  boylike  still,  — 
That  life's  hard  censors  could  disarm 

And  lead  them  captive  at  his  will? 
His  heart  was  shaped  of  rosier  clay,  — 

His  veins  were  filled  with  ruddier  fire,  — - 
Time  could  not  chill  him,  fortune  sway, 

Nor  toil  with  all  its  burdens  tire. 

His  speech  burst  throbbing  from  its  fount 

And  set  our  colder  thoughts  aglow, 
As  the  hot  leaping  geysers  mount 

And  falling  melt  the  Iceland  snow. 
Some  word,  perchance,  we  counted  rash,  — 

Some  phrase  our  calmness  might  disclaim, 
Yet  'twas  the  sunset's  lightning's  flash, 

No  angry  bolt,  but  harmless  flame. 

Man  judges  all,  God  knoweth  each; 

We  read  the  rule,  He  sees  the  law; 
How  oft  his  laughing  children  teach 

The  truths  his  prophets  never  saw! 
O  friend,  whose  wisdom  flowered  in  mirth, 

Our  hearts  are  sad,  our  eyes  are  dim; 
He  gave  thy  smiles  to  brighten  earth,  — 

We  trust  thy  joyous  soul  to  Him! 


F.  w.  C.  317 

Alas !  —  our  weakness  Heaven  forgive  I 

We  murmur,  even  while  we  trust, 
"How  long  earth's  breathing  burdens  live, 

Whose  hearts,  before  they  die,  are  dust!  " 
But  thou  !  — through  grief's  untimely  tears 

We  ask  with  half -reproachful  sigh  — 
"Couldst  thou  not  watch  a  few  brief  years 

Till  Friendship  faltered,  'Thou  mayst  die'  ?  " 

Who  loved  our  boyish  years  so  well  ? 

Who  knew  so  well  their  pleasant  tales, 
And  all  those  livelier  freaks  could  tell 

Whose  oft-told  story  never  fails? 
In  vain  we  turn  our  aching  eyes,  — 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  eager  hands,  — 
Cold  in  his  wintry  shroud  he  lies 

Beneath  the  dreary  drifting  sands  ! 

Ah,  speak  not  thus !     He  lies  not  there ! 

We  see  him,  hear  him  as  of  old ! 
He  comes  !     He  claims  his  wonted  chair; 

His  beaming  face  we  still  behold ! 
His  voice  rings  clear  in  all  our  songs, 

And  loud  his  mirthful  accents  rise ; 
To  us  our  brother's  life  belongs,  — 

Dear  friends,  a  classmate  never  dies  I 


318          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

THE  LAST  CHAEGE 

1864 

Now,  men  of  the  North !  will  you  join  in  the  strife 
For  country,  for  freedom,  for  honor,  for  life  ? 
The  giant  grows  blind  in  his  fury  and  spite,  — 
One  blow  on  his  forehead  will  settle  the  fight ! 

Flash  full  in  his  eyes  the  blue  lightning  of  steel, 
And  stun  him  with  cannon-bolts,  peal  upon  peal ! 
Mount,   troopers,    and   follow  your  game   to    its 

lair, 
As  the  hound  tracks  the  wolf  and  the  beagle  the 

hare! 

Blow,    trumpets,    your    summons,    till    sluggards 

aw?,ke ! 
Beat,   drums,  till  the   roofs  of   the  faint-hearted 

shake ! 

Yet,  yet,  ere  the  signet  is  stamped  on  the  scroll, 
Their  names  may  be  traced  on  the  blood-sprinkled 

roll! 

Trust  not  the  false  herald  that  painted  your  shield : 
True  honor  to-day  must  be  sought  on  the  field  ! 
Her  scutcheon  shows  white  with  a  blazon  of  red,  — 
The  life-drops  of  crimson  for  liberty  shed ! 

The  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  moment  draws  nigh ; 
The  dog-star  of  treason  grows  dim  in  the  sky ; 


OUR    OLDEST  FRIEND  319 

Shine   forth  from   the   battle-cloud,  light   of  the 

morn, 
Call  back  the  bright  hour  when  the  Nation  was 

born! 

The  rivers  of  peace  through  our  valleys  shall  run, 
As  the  glaciers  of  tyranny  melt  in  the  sun ; 
Smite,  smite  the  proud  parricide  down  from  his 

throne,  — 
His  sceptre  once  broken,  the  world  is  our  own  I 


OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND 
1865 

''     I  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air, 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife, 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night, 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone ; 


320          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New-Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be, 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us !  he  pats  our  heads, 
And,  lo !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads ; 
And  he  's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair, 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity  I  " 


SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH  321 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here  's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wise  and  as  tough  as  he  I 


SHERMAN  'S   IN  SAVANNAH 

A  HALF-RHYMED   IMPROMPTU 
1865 

LIKE  the  tribes  of  Israel, 

Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  land, 
Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 

Marching  on  Savannah ! 

As  the  moving  pillar  shone, 
Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night, 


322          POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 
Down  on  doomed  Savannah! 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high! 

Shout  the  loud  Hosanna! 
Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah! 

Soon  shall  Richmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah ! 


MY  ANNUAL 

1866 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once  loved  to 

hear 

Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes  of  a  tear? 
How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of  old. 
While  its  strings  were  unbroken,  untarnished  its 

gold? 

Dear  friends  of   my  boyhood,  my  words   do  you 

wrong ; 
The  heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb  in  my  song ; 


MY  ANNUAL  323 

It  reads  the  kind   answer  that  looks  from  your 

eyes,  — 
"We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on  till  he  dies." 

Though  Youth,  the  fair  angel  that  looked  o'er  the 

strings, 
Has   lost   the  bright   glory  that  gleamed   on  his 

wings, 
Though  the  freshness  of  morning  has  passed  from 

its  tone, 
It  is  still  the  old  harp  that  was  always  your  own. 

I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it  affords 

I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that  lend  me  its 

chords ; 

I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the  last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  with  the  voice  of  your 

past. 

Ah,  brothers !  dear  brothers !  the  harp  that  I  hold 
No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan  mould; 
He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fashioned  the  lyres 
That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  seraphim  choirs. 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it  brings, 

Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it  that  clings ; 

Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years  that  are 

fled, 
Those   sweets   breathe  from   roses   your  summers 

have  shed. 

Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute  to  this, 
Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Garden  of  Bliss; 


324  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

The  thorn  and  the  thistle  may  grow  as  they  will, 
Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Paradise  still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while  summer  is  green, 

The  leaf -hidden  cradle  that  rocked  him  unseen; 

When  Autumn's  rude  fingers  the  woods  have  un 
dressed, 

The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they  show  him  his 
nest. 

Too  precious  these  moments !  the  lustre  they  fling 
Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of  its  ring, 
So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost  forget 
The  rays  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 

While  round  us  the  many-hued  halo  is  shed, 
How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are  the  dead! 
One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting  below, 
Those  walking  the  shores  where  the  asphodels  blow ! 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall  divide,  — 
No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at  my  side; 
No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs  infest, 
His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like  the  rest. 

Some  won  the  world's  homage,  their  names  we  hold 

dear,  — 

But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  countersign  here ; 
Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned  in  the  strife 
For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the  battle  of  life! 

What  tongue  talks  of  battle?  Too  long  we  have 
heard 


ALL  HERE  325 

In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word; 

It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned  the  wave, 

It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood  of  our  brave. 

Peace,  Peace  comes  at  last,  with  her  garland  of 

white ; 

Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather  to-night; 
The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the  sun ; 
We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one !     We  are  one  I 


ALL  HERE 

1867 

IT  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  unbroken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May  touch  the  heart  as  friendship's  token; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows, 

Thrice  welcome  to  our  smiles  and  praises; 
Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 

Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies; 
One  flower  erelong  we  all  shall  claim, 

Alas !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 
Nature's  last  blossom  —  need  I  name 

The  wreath  of  threescore 's  silver  lilies? 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  >29 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers? 
Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 

The  old  triennial  list  remembers; 
Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 

That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 
The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty -nine  — 

God  bless  THE  BOYS  !  —  are  all  together  I 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greeting,  — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre, 
But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same ; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  cluster! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 

Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immortals; 
They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 

Before  their  morning  days  were  numbered,  — 
Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 

The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that  slumbered! 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 

Arch  o'er  the  dust  where  worldlings  grovel 

High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 
The  cross  above  the  sexton's  shovel! 


ALL  HERE  327 

We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day ; 

They  seem  to  stoop  from  spheres  of  glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While  youth  comes  back  in  song  and  story. 

Ah !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  temper; 
It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 

The  priest's  ubique  —  omnes  —  semper  I 
It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 

That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as  steady 
As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already ! 

The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder! 
Too  late !  too  late !  —  no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  itc  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever  I 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother: 
'My  children.     Boys  of  '29. 

In  pace.     How  they  loved  each  other!  " 


328          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

ONCE  MORE 
1868 

"  Will  I  come  ?  "  That  is  pleasant !  I  beg  to  in 
quire 

If  the  gun  that  I  carry  has  ever  missed  fire  ? 

And  which  was  the  muster-roll  —  mention  but 
one  — 

That  missed  your  old  comrade  who  carries  the  gun  ? 

You  see  me  as  always,  my  hand  on  the  lock, 
The  cap  on  the  nipple,  the  hammer  full  cock; 
It  is  rusty,  some  tell  me ;  I  heed  not  the  scoff ; 
It  is  battered  and  bruised,  but  it  always  goes  off ! 

"Is  it  loaded?"    I  '11  bet  you!    What  doesn't  it 

hold? 

Rammed  full  to  the  muzzle  with  memories  untold ; 
Why,  it  scares  me  to  fire,  lest  the  pieces  should  fly 
Like  the  cannons  that  burst  on  the  Fourth  of  July ! 

One  charge  is  a  remnant  of  College-day  dreams 
(Its  wadding  is  made  of  forensics  and  themes); 
Ah,  visions  of  fame !  what  a  flash  in  the  pan 
As  the  trigger  was  pulled  by  each  clever  young 
man! 

And  love!     Bless  my  stars,  what   a  cartridge   is 

there ! 
With  a  wadding  of  rose-leaves   and  ribbons  and 

hair,  — 


ONCE  MORE  329 

All  crammed  in  one  verse  to  go  off  at  a  shot ! 
"Were  there  ever  such  sweethearts ?"     Of  course 
there  were  not ! 

And  next,  —  what  a  load !   it  will   split  the  old 

gun,— 

Three  fingers,  —  four  fingers,  —  five  fingers  of  fun ! 
Come  tell  me,  gray  sages,  for  mischief  and  noise 
Was  there  ever  a  lot  like  us  fellows,  "The  Boys  "  ? 

Bump !  bump!  down  the  staircase  the  cannon-ball 

goes,— 

Aha,  old  Professor !  Look  out  for  your  toes ! 
Don't  think,  my  poor  Tutor,  to  sleep  in  your 

bed,  — 
Two  "Boys"  —  'twenty-niners  —  room  over  your 

head! 

Remember  the  nights  when  the  tar-barrel  blazed! 
From  red  "Massachusetts  "  the  war-cry  was  raised; 
And    "Hollis"  and    "Stoughton"   reechoed    the 

call; 
Till  P poked  his  head  out  of  Hoi  worthy  Hall! 

Old  P ,  as  we  called  him,  —  at  fifty  or  so,  — 

Not  exactly  a  bud,  but  not  quite  in  full  blow; 
In  ripening  manhood,  suppose  we  should  say, 
Just  nearing  his  prime,  as  we  boys  are  to-day ! 

Oh  say,  can  you  look  through  the  vista  of  age 
To  the  time  when  old   Morse  drove   the   regular 
stage  ? 


330  POEMS  OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

When  Lyon  told  tales  of  the  long-vanished  years, 
And  Lenox  crept  round  with  the  rings  in  his  ears? 

And  dost  thou,  my  brother,  remember  indeed 
The  days  of  our  dealings  with  Willard  and  Read? 
When  "Dolly"  was  kicking  and  running  away, 
And  punch  came  up  smoking  on  Fillebrown's  tray? 

But  where  are  the  Tutors,  my  brother,  oh  tell !  — 
And  where  the  Professors,  remembered  so  well? 
The  sturdy  old  Grecian  of  Holworthy  Hall, 
And  Latin,  and  Logic,  and  Hebrew,  and  all? 

"They   are   dead,    the    old    fellows"  (we   called 

them  so  then, 
Though  we  since  have  found  out  they  were  lusty 

young  men). 
They  are  dead,  do  you  tell  me  ?  —  but  how  do  you 

know? 
You  've  filled  once  too  often.     I  doubt  if  it 's  so. 

I  'm    thinking.     I  'm    thinking.    Is    this    'sixty- 
eight? 

It 's  not  quite  so  clear.  It  admits  of  debate. 
I  may  have  been  dreaming.  I  rather  incline 
To  think  —  yes,  I  'm  certain  —  it  is  'twenty-nine  ! 

"By  Zhorzhe !  "  —  as  friend  Sales  is  accustomed  to 

cry, — 

You  tell  me  they  're  dead,  but  I  know  it 's  a  lie ! 
Is  Jackson  not  President?  —  What  was  't  you  said? 
It  can't  be;  you're   joking;  what, — all  of  'em 

dead? 


ONCE  MORE  331 

Jim,  —  Harry,  —  Fred,  —  Isaac,  —  all  gone  from 

our  side? 

They  couldn't  have  left  us,  — no,  not  if  they  tried. 
Look, — there's  our  old  Prseses, — he  can't  find 

his  text; 
See,  —  P rubs    his    leg,   as   he   growls   out 

"The  next  I" 

I  told  you  't  was  nonsense.  Joe,  give  us  a  song ! 
Go  harness  up  "Dolly,"  and  fetch  her  along!  — 
Dead !  Dead  !  You  false  graybeard,  I  swear 

they  are  not! 
Hurrah  for  Old  Hickory !  —  Oh,  I  forgot ! 

Well,  one  we  have  with  us  (how  could  he  contrive 
To  deal  with  us  youngsters  and  still  to  survive?) 
Who  wore  for  our  guidance  authority's  robe,  — 
No  wonder  he  took  to  the  study  of  Job ! 

And  now,  as  my  load  was  uncommonly  large, 
Let  me  taper  it  off  with  a  classical  charge ; 
When  that  has  gone  off,  I  shall  drop  my  old  gun  — 
And  then  stand  at  ease,  for  my  service  is  done. 

Bibamus  ad  Classem  vocatam  "  The  Boys  " 
Et  eorum  Tutor  em  cui  nomen  est  "  Noyes  "y 
Etfloreant,  valeant,  vigeant  tarn, 
Non  Peircius  ipse  enumeret  quam  ! 


332          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

THE  OLD  CRUISER 

1869 

HERE  's  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine, 
Forty  times  she  's  crossed  the  line ; 
Same  old  masts  and  sails  and  crew, 
Tight  and  tough  and  as  good  as  new. 

Into  the  harbor  she  bravely  steers 
Just  as  she  's  done  for  these  forty  years,  — 
Over  her  anchor  goes,  splash  and  clang! 
Down  her  sails  drop,  rattle  and  bang ! 

Comes  a  vessel  out  of  the  dock 
Fresh  and  spry  as  a  fighting-cock, 
Feathered  with  sails  and  spurred  with  steam, 
Heading  out  of  the  classic  stream. 

Crew  of  a  hundred  all  aboard, 
Every  man  as  fine  as  a  lord. 
Gay  they  look  and  proud  they  feel, 
Bowling  along  on  even  keel. 

On  they  float  with  wind  and  tide,  — 
Gain  at  last  the  old  ship's  side; 
Every  man  looks  down  in  turn,  — 
Reads  the  name  that 's  on  her  stern. 

"  Twenty -nine !  —  Diable  you  say ! 
That  was  in  Skipper  Kirkland's  day! 
What  was  the  Flying  Dutchman's  name? 
This  old  rover  must  be  the  same. 


THE   OLD  CRUISER  333 

"Ho!  you  Boatswain  that  walks  the  deck, 
How  does  it  happen  you  're  not  a  wreck? 
One  and  another  have  come  to  grief, 
How  have  you  dodged  by  rock  and  reef?  " 

Boatswain,  lifting  one  knowing  lid, 
Hitches  his  breeches  and  shifts  his  quid: 
"Hey?     What  is  it?     Who  's  come  to  grief? 
Louder,  young  swab,  I  'm  a  little  deaf." 

"I  say,  old  fellow,  what  keeps  your  boat 
With  all  you  jolly  old  boys  afloat, 
When  scores  of  vessels  as  good  as  she 
Have  swallowed  the  salt  of  the  bitter  sea? 

"Many  a  crew  from  many  a  craft 
Goes  drifting  by  on  a  broken  raft 
Pieced  from  a  vessel  that  clove  the  brine 
Taller  and  prouder  than  'Twenty-nine. 

"Some  capsized  in  an  angry  breeze, 
Some  were  lost  in  the  narrow  seas, 
Some  on  snags  and  some  on  sands 
Struck  and  perished  and  lost  their  hands. 

"Tell  us  young  ones,  you  gray  old  man, 
What  is  your  secret,  if  you  can. 
We  have  a  ship  as  good  as  you, 
Show  us  how  to  keep  our  crew." 

So  in  his  ear  the  youngster  cries; 

Then  the  gray  Boatswain  straight  replies :  — 


334  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

"  All  your  crew  be  sure  you  know,  — 
Never  let  one  of  your  shipmates  go. 

"If  he  leaves  you,  change  your  tack, 
Follow  him  close  and  fetch  him  back; 
When  you  've  hauled  him  in  at  last, 
Grapple  his  flipper  and  hold  him  fast. 

"If  you  've  wronged  him,  speak  him  fair, 
Say  you  're  sorry  and  make  it  square; 
If  he  's  wronged  you,  wink  so  tight 
None  of  you  see  what  's  plain  in  sight. 

"When  the  world  goes  hard  and  wrong, 
Lend  a  hand  to  help  him  along; 
When  his  stockings  have  holes  to  darn, 
Don't  you  grudge  him  your  ball  of  yarn. 

"Once  in  a  twelvemonth,  come  what  may, 
Anchor  your  ship  in  a  quiet  bay, 
Call  all  hands  and  read  the  log, 
And  give  'em  a  taste  of  grub  and  grog. 

"Stick  to  each  other  through  thick  and  thin; 
All  the  closer  as  age  leaks  in ; 
Squalls  will  blow  and  clouds  will  frown, 
But  stay  by  your  ship  till  you  all  go  down!  " 

ADDED     FOR     THE     ALUMNI     MEETING,     JUNE    29, 
1869. 

So  the  gray  Boatswain  of  'Twenty -nine 
Piped  to  "The  Boys  "  as  they  crossed  the  line; 


HYMN  FOR   THE   CLASS-MEETING     335 

Round  the  cabin  sat  thirty  guests, 

Babes  of  the  nurse  with  a  thousand  breasts. 

There  were  the  judges,  grave  and  grand, 
Hanked  by  the  priests  on  either  hand ; 
There  was  the  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
And  the  dear  good  fellow  in  broadcloth  old. 

Thirty  men,  from  twenty  towns, 

Sires  and  grandsires  with  silvered  crowns,  — 

Thirty  school-boys  all  in  a  row,  — 

Bens  and  Georges  and  Bill  and  Joe. 

In  thirty  goblets  the  wine  was  poured, 

But  threescore  gathered  around  the  board,  — 

For  lo !  at  the  side  of  every  chair 

A  shadow  hovered  —  we  all  were  there ! 


HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING 
1869 

THOU  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends 
The  light  of  home,  the  smile  of  friends, 
Our  gathered  flock  thine  arms  infold 
As  in  the  peaceful  days  of  old. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  us  while  we  raise, 
In  sweet  accord  of  solemn  praise, 
The  voices  that  have  mingled  long 
In  joyous  flow  of  mirth  and  song? 


336          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

For  all  the  blessings  life  has  brought, 
For  all  its  sorrowing  hours  have  taught, 
For  all  we  mourn,  for  all  we  keep, 
The  hands  we  clasp,  the  loved  that  sleep; 

The  noontide  sunshine  of  the  past, 
These  brief,  bright  moments  fading  fast, 
The  stars  that  gild  our  darkening  years, 
The  twilight  ray  from  holier  spheres ; 

We  thank  thee,  Father !  let  thy  grace 
Our  narrowing  circle  still  embrace, 
Thy  mercy  shed  its  heavenly  store, 
Thy  peace  be  with  us  evermore ! 


EVEN-SONG. 

1870 

IT  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Time  that  brings 

An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the  train 

Of  Autumn's  burdened  wain,  — 
Time,  that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly  state, 

And  knoweth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  turned  to  shore  and  shore  to  sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be, 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his  own 

Old  empires  overthrown,  — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too  large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge, 


EVEN-SONG  337 

Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beam  so  small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,  must  be,  —  yes,  he  soon  shall  tire 

This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first-born  thrill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 
When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  summer's  heat 

Pipes  from  its  leafy  seat, 
The  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 

Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain,  — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "The  fire  burns  low,  the  hearth  is  cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old ; 
Cover  its  embers  and  its  half -burnt  brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame ; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same, 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme ! 
Speak  kindly,  for  he  bears  a  human  heart, 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 


338          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Tell  him  the  woods  their  autumn  robes  have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled, 
And  shouting  winds  unbuild  the  naked  nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts ; 
Tell  him  the  sky  is  dark,  the  summer  o'er, 

And  bid  him  sing  no  more !  " 

Ah,  welladay !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 
Crested  with  gleams  of  fire,  and  as  they  flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever  reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach, — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and  the  pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain, 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 

Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thou,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss  and  fame 

Hast  set  his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre !  can  say  farewell  to  thee  ? 

Alas !  and  must  it  be  ? 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately  tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song; 
Yet  the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender  tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more  sweet, 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 


EVEN-SONG  339 

Than  all  the  hymnings  of  the  laurelled  throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong, 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them  she  feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 

And  pours   them   subtle  draughts   from  haunted 
streams 

That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

Full  well  I  know  the  gracious  mother's  wiles 

And  dear  delusive  smiles ! 
No  callow  fledgling  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing, 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his  nest 

Flaps  forth  —  we  know  the  rest. 
I  own  the  weakness  of  the  tuuaful  kind,  — 

Are  not  all  harpers  blind  ? 
I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late? 

The  lengthening  shadows  wait 
The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  —  yet  how  sweet 

The  flattering  whisper's  cheat,  — 
"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill  can  tame, 

Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame !  " 

Farewell,  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  morn, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not  back 

Along  his  furrowed  track; 
The  reaper  leaves  the  stalks  for  other  hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bands; 


340  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant-born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes  his  way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet  scrambling  down 

To  wash  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling  of  the  green  and  billowy  waste 

Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 
Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may  feel 

Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 

The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes  us  bold 

With  secrets  else  untold, — 
And  mine  has  run  its  errand ;  through  the  dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse ; 
The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my  lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips; 
Whether  I  would  or  would  not,  I  must  sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring; 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 

For  whom  a  brighter  sun 

Dawned  at  high  summer's  noon.     Ah,  comrades 
dear, 

Are  not  all  gathered  here  ? 

Our  hearts  have  answered.  —  Yes !  they  hear  our 
call: 

All  gathered  here!  all!  all! 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER  341 


PRECISELY.     I  see  it.     You  all  want  to  say 
That  a  tear  is  too  sad  and  a  laugh  is  too  gay ; 
You  could  stand  a  faint  smile,  you  could  manage  a 

sigh, 
But  you  value  your  ribs,  and  you  don't  want  to 

cry. 

And  why  at  our  feast  of  the  clasping  of  hands 
Need  we   turn   on  the   stream  of   our  lachrymal 

glands? 

Though  we  see  the  white  breakers  of  age  on  our  bow, 
Let  us  take  a  good  pull  in  the  jolly-boat  now! 

It 's  hard  if  a  fellow  cannot  feel  content 
When  a  banquet  like  this  does  n't  cost  him  a  cent, 
When  his  goblet  and  plate  he  may  empty  at  will, 
And  our  kind  Class  Committee  will  settle  the  bill. 

And  here  's  your  old  friend,  the  identical  bard 
Who  has  rhymed  and  recited  you  verse  by  the  yard 
Since  the  days  of  the  empire  of  Andrew  the  First 
Till  you  're  full  to  the  brim  and  feel  ready  to 
burst. 

It 's  awful  to  think  of,  —  how  year  after  year 
With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for  you  here; 
No  matter  who  's  missing,  there  always  is  one 
To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 


342          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

"Why  won't  he  stop  writing?"  Humanity  cries: 
The  answer  is  briefly,  "He  can't  if  he  tries; 
He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather  so  long, 
That  the  goose-quill  in   spite   of  him  cackles  in 
song." 

You  have  watched  him  with  patience  from  morn 
ing  to  dusk 

Since  the  tassel  was  bright  o'er  the  green  of  the 
husk, 

And  now  —  it 's  too  bad  —  it 's  a  pitiful  j  ob  — 

He  has  shelled  the  ripe  ear  till  he  's  come  to  the 
cob. 

I  see  one  face  beaming  —  it  listens  so  well 
There  must  be  some  music  yet  left  in  my  shell  — 
The  wine  of  my  soul  is  not  thick  011  the  lees ; 
One  string  is  unbroken,  one  friend  I  can  please ! 

Dear  comrade,  the  sunshine  of  seasons  gone  by 
Looks  out  from  your  tender  and  tear-moistened  eye, 
A  pharos  of  love  on  an  ice-girdled  coast,  — 
Kind  soul!  — Don't  you  hear  me?  —  He 's  deaf  as 
a  post  I 

Can  it  be  one  of  Nature's  benevolent  tricks 
That  you  grow  hard  of  hearing  as  I  grow  prolix? 
And  that  look  of  delight  which  would  angels  be 
guile 
Is  the  deaf  man's  prolonged  unintelligent  smile? 

Ah !  the  ear  may  grow  dull,  and  the  eye  may  wax 
dim, 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER  343 

But  they  still  know  a  classmate  —  they  can't  mis 
take  him; 

There  is  something  to  tell  us,  "That 's  one  of  our 
band," 

Though  we  groped  in  the  dark  for  a  touch  of  his 
hand. 

Well,  Time  with  his  snuffers  is  prowling  about 
And  his  shaky  old  fingers  will  soon  snuff  us  out ; 
There  's  a  hint  for  us  all  in  each  pendulum  tick, 
For  we  're  low  in  the  tallow  and  long  in  the  wick. 

You  remember  Rossini  — you  've  been  at  the  play? 

How  his  overture-endings  keep  crashing  away 

Till  you  think,  "It 's  all  over  —  it  can't  but  stop 
now  — 

That  's  the  screech  and  the  bang  of  the  final  bow 
wow." 

And  you  find  you  're  mistaken;  there  's  lots  more 

to  come, 

More  banging,  more  screeching  of  fiddle  and  drum, 
Till  when  the  last  ending  is  finished  and  done, 
You  feel  like  a  horse  when  the  winning-post  's 

won. 

So  I,  who  have  sung  to  you,  merry  or  sad, 

Since  the  days  when  they  called  me  a  promising 

lad, 
Though  I  've  made  you  more  rhymes  than  a  tutor 

could  scan, 
Have  a  few  more  still  left,  like  the  razor-strop  man. 


344  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Now  pray  don't  be  frightened  —  I  'm  ready  to  stop 
My  galloping  anapests'  clatter  and  pop  — 
In  fact,  if  you  say  so,  retire  from  to-day 
To  the  garret  I  left,  on  a  poet's  half -pay. 

And  yet  —  I  can't   help  it  —  perhaps  —  who  can 

teU? 

You  might  miss  the  poor  singer  you  treated  so  well, 
And  confess  you  could  stand  him  five  minutes  or  so, 
"It  was  so  like  old  times  we  remember,  you  know." 

'T  is  not  that  the  music  can  signify  much, 

But   then   there   are   chords   that   awake   with   a 

touch,  — 

And  our  hearts  can  find  echoes  of  sorrow  and  joy 
To  the  winch  of  the  minstrel  who  hails  from  Savoy. 

So  this  hand-organ  tune  that  I  cheerfully  grind 
May  bring  the  old  places  and  faces  to  mind, 
And  seen  in  the  light  of  the  past  we  recall 
The  flowers  that  have  faded  bloom  fairest  of  all! 


OUR  SWEET  SINGER 

J.    A. 

1872 

ONE  memory  trembles  on  our  lips ; 

It  throbs  in  every  breast ; 
In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 

The  shadow  stands  confessed. 


OUR  SWEET  SINGER  345 

O  silent  voice,  that  cheered  so  long 

Our  manhood's  marching  day, 
Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 

How  weary  seems  the  way! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 

Our  sorrowing  heart's  desire, — 
The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 

The  silent  unstrung  lyre ; 

For  youth  was  round  us  while  he  sang; 

It  glowed  in  every  tone; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 
i 

Oh  blissful  dream !     Our  nursery  joys 

We  know  must  have  an  end, 
But  love  and  friendship's  broken  toys 

May  God's  good  angels  mend! 

The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 

And  laughter's  gay  surprise 
That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 

Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies? 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 

That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 
An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 

One  verse  of  "Bonny  Doon"; 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 
In  heaven's  unclouded  light, 


346          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 
And  hum  "The  sky  is  bright. " 

And  can  we  smile  when  thou  art  dead? 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red, 

In  spite  of  winter's  snow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  song  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  grief's  untimely  chill. 

The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 
The  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 

Hark!  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 
That  clear  celestial  tone? 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 
How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 

As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 
That  angel  voice  of  thine ! 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue ; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung ! 


H.  C.  M.    H.  S.    J.  K.  W.  347 

H.  C.  M.    H.  S.    J.  K.  W. 

1873 

THE   dirge  is   played,  the   throbbing  death-peal 

rung, 

The  sad-voiced  requiem  sung; 
On  each  white  urn  where  memory  dwells 
The  wreath  of  rustling  immortelles 

Our  loving  hands  have  hung, 
And  balmiest  leaves  have   strown  and  tenderest 
blossoms  flung. 

The  birds  that  filled  the  air  with  songs  have  flown, 

The  wintry  blasts  have  blown, 
And  these  for  whom  the  voice  of  spring 
Bade  the  sweet  choirs  their  carols  sing 

Sleep  in  those  chambers  lone 
Where  snows  untrodden  lie,  unheard  the  night- 
winds  moan. 

We  clasp  them  all  in  memory,  as  the  vine 

Whose  running  stems  intwine 
The  marble  shaft,  and  steal  around 
The  lowly  stone,  the  nameless  mound; 

With  sorrowing  hearts  resign 
Our  brothers  true  and  tried,  and  close  our  broken 
line. 

How  fast  the  lamps  of  life  grow  dim  and  die 

Beneath  our  sunset  sky ! 
Still  fading,  as  along  our  track 


348          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29. 

We  cast  our  saddened  glances  back, 

And  while  we  vainly  sigh 

The  shadowy  day  recedes,  the  starry  night  draws 
nigh. 

As  when  from  pier  to  pier  across  the  tide 

With  even  keel  we  glide, 
The  lights  we  left  along  the  shore 
Grow  less  and  less,  while  more,  yet  more 

New  vistas  open  wide 

Of  fair  illumined  streets  and  casements  golden- 
eyed. 

Each  closing  circle  of  our  sunlit  sphere 
Seems  to  bring  heaven  more  near : 
Can  we  not  dream  that  those  we  love 
Are  listening  in  the  world  above 

And  smiling  as  they  hear 

The  voices  known  so  well  of  friends  that  still  are 
dear? 

Does  all  that  made  us  human  fade  away 

With  this  dissolving  clay? 
Nay,  rather  deem  the  blessed  isles 
Are  bright  and  gay  with  joyous  smiles, 

That  angels  have  their  play, 

And  saints  that  tire  of  song  may  claim  their  holi 
day. 

else  of  earth  may  perish ;  love  alone 
Not  heaven  shall  find  outgrown ! 


WHAT  I  HAVE   COME  FOR  349 

Are  they  not  here,  our  spirit  guests, 
With  love  still  throbbing  in  their  breasts? 

Once  more  let  flowers  be  strown. 
Welcome,  ye  shadowy  forms,  we  count  you  still 
our  own! 


WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR 

1873 

I  HAVE  come  with  my  verses  —  I  think  I  may  claim 
It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  tried  on  the  same. 
They  were  puckered  in  rhyme,  they  were  wrinkled 

m  wit ; 
But  your  hearts  were  so  large  that  they  made  them 

a  fit. 

I  have  come  —  not  to  tease  you  with  more  of  my 

rhyme, 

But  to  feel  as  I  did  in  the  blessed  old  time ; 
I  want  to  hear  him  with  the  Brobdingnag  laugh  — 
We  count  him  at  least  as  three  men  and  a  half. 

I  have  come  to  meet  judges  so  wise  and  so  grand 
That  I  shake  in  my  shoes  while  they  're  shaking  my 

hand; 
And  the  prince  among  merchants  who  put  back  the 

crown 
When  they  tried  to  enthrone  him  the  King  of  the 

Town. 

I  have  come  to  see  George  —  Yes,  I  think  there  are 
four, 


350  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

If  they  all  were  like  these  I  could  wish  there  were 

more. 
I  have  come  to   see  one  whom  we  used  to  call 

"Jim," 
I  want  to  see  —  oh,  don't  I  want  to  see  him? 

I  have  come  to  grow  young  —  on  my  word  I  declare 
I  have  thought  I  detected  a  change  in  my  hair ! 
One   hour  with  "The   Boys"  will  restore  it  to 

brown  — 
And  a  wrinkle  or  two  I  expect  to  rub  down. 

Yes,  that 's  what  I  've  come  for,  as  all  of  us  come ; 
When  I  meet  the  dear  Boys  I  could  wish  I  were 

dumb. 
You  asked  me,  you  know,  but   it 's  spoiling  the 

fun; 
I  have  told  what  I  came  for;  my  ditty  is  done. 


OUR  BANKER 

1874 

OLD  TIME,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our  notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always  wants  guineas  for  groats ; 
He  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
By  lending  them  minutes  and  charging  them  years. 

The  twelvemonth  rolls  round  and  we  never  forget 
On  the  counter  before  us  to  pay  him  our  debt. 
We  reckon  the  marks  he  has  chalked  on  the  door, 
Pay  up  and  shake  hands  and  begin  a  new  score. 


OUR  BANKER  351 

How  long  he  will  lend  us,  how  much  we  may  owe, 
No  angel  will  tell  us,  no  mortal  may  know. 
At  fivescore,  at  fourscore,  at  threescore  and  ten, 
He  may  close  the  account  with  a  stroke  of  his  pen. 

This  only  we  know,  —  amid  sorrows  and  joys 
Old   Time   has   been   easy  and   kind  with   "The 

Boys." 
Though  he  must  have  and  will  have  and  does  have 

his  pay, 
We  have  found  him  good-natured  enough  in  his 

way. 

He  never  forgets  us,  as  others  will  do,  — 
I  am  sure  he  knows  me,  and  I  think  he  knows  you, 
For  I  see  on  your  foreheads  a  mark  that  he  lends 
As  a  sign  he  remembers  to  visit  his  friends. 

In  the  shape  of  a  classmate  (a  wig  on  his  crown,  — 
His  day-book  and  ledger  laid  carefully  down) 
He  has  welcomed  us  yearly,  a  glass  in  his  hand, 
And  pledged  the  good  health  of  our  brotherly  band. 

He  's  a  thief,  we  must  own,  but  how  many  there  be 

That  rob  us  less  gently  and  fairly  than  he : 

He  has  stripped  the  green  leaves  that  were  over  us 

all, 
But  they  let  in  the  sunshine  as  fast  as  they  fall. 

Young  beauties  may  ravish  the  world  with  a  glance 
As  they  languish  in   song,  as   they  float   in   the 
dance, — 


352         POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

They  are  grandmothers  now  we  remember  as  girls, 
And  the  comely  white  cap  takes  the  place  of  the 
curls. 

But  the  sighing  and  moaning  and  groaning  are 

o'er, 

We  are  pining  and  moping  and  sleepless  no  more, 
And  the  hearts  that  were  thumping  like  ships  on 

the  rocks 
Beat  as  quiet  and  steady  as  meeting-house  clocks. 

The  trump  of  ambition,  loud  sounding  and  shrill, 
May  blow  its  long  blast,  but  the  echoes  are  still, 
The  spring-tides  are  past,  but  no  billow  may  reach 
The  spoils  they  have  landed  far  up  on  the  beach. 

We  see  that  Time  robs  us,  we  know  that  he  cheats, 
But  we  still  find  a  charm  in  his  pleasant  deceits, 
While  he  leaves  the  remembrance  of  all  that  was 

best, 
Love,  friendship,  and  hope,  and  the  promise  of 

rest. 

Sweet  shadows  of  twilight !  how  calm  their  repose, 
While  the  dewdrops  fall  soft  in  the  breast  of  the 

rose! 

How  blest  to  the  toiler  his  hour  of  release 
When  the  vesper  is   heard  with   its   whisper  of 

peace ! 

Then  here  's  to  the  wrinkled  old  miser,  our  friend; 
May  he  send  us  his  bills  to  the  century's  end, 


FOR  CLASS  MEETING  353 

And  lend  us  the  moments  no  sorrow  alloys, 
Till  he  squares  his  account  with  the  last  of  "The 
Boys." 


FOR  CLASS  MEETING 
1875 

IT  is  a  pity  and  a  shame  —  alas !  alas !  I  know  it  is, 
To  tread  the  trodden  grapes  again,  but  so  it  has 

been,  so  it  is; 
The   purple   vintage   long   is   past,  with  ripened 

clusters  bursting  so 
They  filled  the  wine-vats  to  the  brim, — 't  is  strange 

you  will  be  thirsting  so ! 

Too  well  our  faithful  memory  tells  what  might  be 
rhymed  or  sung  about, 

For  all  have  sighed  and  some  have  wept  since  last 
year's  snows  were  flung  about; 

The  beacon  flame  that  fired  the  sky,  the  modest 
ray  that  gladdened  us, 

A  little  breath  has  quenched  their  light,  and  deep 
ening  shades  have  saddened  us. 

No  more  our  brother's  life  is  ours  for  cheering  or 

for  grieving  us, 
One  only  sadness  they  bequeathed,  the  sorrow  of 

their  leaving  us ; 
Farewell!  Farewell!  —  I  turn  the  leaf  I  read  my 

chiming  measure  in ; 
Who  knows  but  something  still  is  there  a  friend 

may  find  a  pleasure  in  ? 


354  POEMS  OF   THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

For  who  can  tell  by  what  he  likes  what  other  peo 
ple's  fancies  are? 

How  all  men  think  the  best  of  wives  their  own 
particular  Nancies  are? 

If  what  I  sing  you  brings  a  smile,  you  will  not  stop 
to  catechise, 

Nor  read  Boeotia's  lumbering  line  with  nicely  scan 
ning  Attic  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  alabaster  box  that  Mary  broke  so  lov 
ingly, 

While  Judas  looked  so  sternly  on,  the  Master  so 
approvingly, 

Was  not  so  fairly  wrought  as  those  that  Pilate's 
wife  and  daughters  had, 

Or  many  a  dame  of  Judah's  line  that  drank  of 
Jordan's  waters  had. 

Perhaps  the  balm  that  cost  so  dear,  as  some  re 
marked  officiously, 

The  precious  nard  that  filled  the  room  with  fra 
grance  so  deliciously, 

So  oft  recalled  in  storied  page  and  sung  in  verse 
melodious, 

The  dancing  girl  had  thought  too  cheap, — that 
daughter  of  Herodias. 

Where  now  are  all  the  mighty  deeds  that  Herod 

boasted  loudest  of  ? 
Where  now  the  flashing  jewelry  the  tetrarch's  wife 

was  proudest  of? 


FOR   CLASS  MEETING  355 

Yet  still  to  hear  how  Mary  loved,  all  tribes  of  men 

are  listening, 
And  still  the  sinful  woman's  tears   like  stars   in 

heaven  are  glistening. 

'T  's  not  the  gift  our  hands  have  brought,  the  love 

it  is  we  bring  with  it,  — 
The  minstrel's  lips  may  shape  the  song,  his  heart 

in  tune  must  sing  with  it ; 
And  so  we  love  the  simple  lays,  and  wish  we  might 

have  more  of  them, 
Our  poet  brothers  sing  for  us,  —  there  must  be  half 

a  score  of  them. 

It  may  be  that  of  fame  and  name  our  voices  once 

were  emulous,  — 
With  deeper  thoughts,  with  tenderer  throbs  their 

softening  tones  are  tremulous ; 
The  dead  seem  listening  as  of  old,  ere  friendship 

was  bereft  of  them; 
The  living  wear  a  kinder  smile,  the  remnant  that 

is  left  of  them. 

Though  on  the  once  unf  urrowed  brows  the  harrow- 
teeth  of  Time  may  show, 

Though  all  the  strain  of  crippling  years  the  halting 
feet  of  rhyme  may  show, 

We  look  and  hear  with  melting  hearts,  for  what 
we  all  remember  is 

The  morn  of  Spring,  nor  heed  how  chill  the  sky  of 
gray  November  is. 


356  POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  powers  above  from  all  man 
kind  that  singled  us, 

And  dropped  the  pearl  of  friendship  in  the  cup  they 
kindly  mingled  us, 

And  bound  us  in  a  wreath  of  flowers  with  hoops  of 
steel  knit  under  it ;  — 

Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  chance,  nor  change,  nor 
death  himself  shall  sunder  it! 


«AD  AMICOS" 

1876 

"  Dumque  virent  genua 
Et  decet,  obducta  sol  vat  ur  fonte  eenectus." 

THE  muse  of  boyhood's  fervid  hour 

Grows  tame  as  skies  get  chill  and  hazy; 
Where  once  she  sought  a  passion-flower, 

She  only  hopes  to  find  a  daisy. 
Well,  who  the  changing  world  bewails  ? 

Who  asks  to  have  it  stay  unaltered? 
Shall  grown-up  kittens  chase  their  tails  ? 

Shall  colts  be  never  shod  or  haltered? 

Are  we  "The  Boys  "  that  used  to  make 

The  tables  ring  with  noisy  follies  ? 
Whose  deep-lunged  laughter  oft  would  shake 

The  ceiling  with  its  thunder- volleys? 
Are  we  the  youths  with  lips  unshorn, 

At  beauty's  feet  unwrinkled  suitors, 
Whose  memories  reach  tradition's  morn,  — 

The  days  of  prehistoric  tutors  ? 


"AD  A  MIC  OS"  357 

"The  Boys"  we  knew,  — but  who  are  these 

Whose  heads  might  serve  for  Plutarch's  sages, 
Or  Fox's  martyrs,  if  you  please, 

Or  hermits  of  the  dismal  ages? 
"The  Boys"  we  knew  —  can  these  be  those? 

Their     cheeks     with     morning's     blush     were 

painted ;  — 
Where  are  the  Harrys,  Jims,  and  Joes 

With  whom  we  once  were  well  acquainted? 

If  we  are  they,  we  're  not  the  same; 

If  they  are  we,  why  then  they  're  masking; 
Do  tell  us,  neighbor  What  's-your-name, 

Who  are  you?  —  What 's  the  use  of  asking? 
You  once  were  George,  or  Bill,  or  Ben ; 

There  's     you,     yourself  —  there  's     you,     that 

other  — 
I  know  you  now  —  I  knew  you  then  — 

You  used  to  be  your  younger  brother! 

You  both  are  all  our  own  to-day,  — 

But  ah !  I  hear  a  warning  whisper ; 
Yon  roseate  hour  that  flits  away 

Repeats  the  Roman's  sad  paulisper. 
Come  back !  come  back !  we  '  ve  need  of  you 

To  pay  you  for  your  word  of  warning; 
We  '11  bathe  your  wings  in  brighter  dew 

Than  ever  wet  the  lids  of  morning ! 

Behold  this  cup ;  its  mystic  wine 

No  alien's  lip  has  ever  tasted; 
The  blood  of  friendship's  clinging  vine, 

Still  flowing,  flowing,  yet  unwasted ; 


358          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Old  Time  forgot  his  running  sand 

And  laid  his  hour-glass  down  to  fill  it, 

And  Death  himself  with  gentle  hand 
Has  touched  the  chalice,  not  to  spill  it. 

Each  bubble  rounding  at  the  brim 

Is  rainbowed  with  its  magic  story; 
The  shining  days  with  age  grown  dim 

Are  dressed  again  in  robes  of  glory; 
In  all  its  freshness  spring  returns 

With  song  of  birds  and  blossoms  tender; 
Once  more  the  torch  of  passion  burns, 

And  youth  is  here  in  all  its  splendor ! 

Hope  swings  her  anchor  like  a  toy, 

Love  laughs  and  shows  the  silver  arrow 
We  knew  so  well  as  man  and  boy,  — 

The  shaft  that  stings  through  bone  and  marrow; 
Again  our  kindling  pulses  beat, 

With  tangled  curls  our  fingers  dally, 
And  bygone  beauties  smile  as  sweet 

As  fresh-blown  lilies  of  the  valley. 

O  blessed  hour !  we  may  forget 

Its  wreaths,  its  rhymes,  its  songs,  its  laughter, 
But  not  the  loving  eyes  we  met, 

Whose  light  shall  gild  the  dim  hereafter. 
How  every  heart  to  each  grows  warm ! 

Is  one  in  sunshine's  ray?     We  share  it. 
Is  one  in  sorrow's  blinding  storm? 

A  look,  a  word,  shall  help  him  bear  it. 


HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT  359 

"The  Boys  "  we  were,  "The  Boys  "  we  '11  be 

As  long  as  three,  as  two,  are  creeping; 
Then  here  's  to  him  —  ah !  which  is  he  ?  — 

Who  lives  till  all  the  rest  are  sleeping; 
A  life  with  tranquil  comfort  blest, 

The  young  man's  health,  the  rich  man's  plenty, 
All  earth  can  give  that  earth  has  best, 

And  heaven  at  fourscore  years  and  twenty. 


HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT 

1877 

I  LIKE,  at  times,  to  hear  the  steeples'  chimes 
With  sober  thoughts  impressively  that  mingle ; 

But  sometimes,  too,  I  rather  like  —  don't  you?  — 
To  hear  the  music  of  the  sleigh  bells'  jingle. 

I  like  full  well  the  deep  resounding  swell 
Of  mighty  symphonies  with  chords  inwoven ; 

But  sometimes,  too,  a  song  of  Burns  —  don't  you? 
After  a  solemn  storm-blast  of  Beethoven. 

Good  to  the  heels  the  well-worn  slipper  feels 
When  the  tired  player  shuffles  off  the  buskin; 

A  page  of  Hood  may  do  a  fellow  good 
After  a  scolding  from  Carlyle  or  Ruskin. 

Some  works  I  find,  —  say  Watts  upon  the  Mind,  — 
No  matter  though  at  first  they  seemed  amusing, 

Not  quite  the  same,  but  just  a  little  tame 
After  some  five  or  six  times'  reperusing. 


360          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

So,  too,  at  times  when  melancholy  rhymes 
Or  solemn  speeches  sober  down  a  dinner, 

I  've     seen    it 's     true,    quite    often,  —  have  n't 

you?  — 
The  best-fed  guests  perceptibly  grow  thinner. 

Better  some  jest  (in  proper  terms  expressed) 
Or  story  (strictly  moral)  even  if  musty, 

Or   song  we'  sung  when  these   old   throats   were 

young,  — 
Something  to  keep  our  souls  from  getting  rusty. 

The  poorest  scrap  from  memory's  ragged  lap 
Comes    like   an    heirloom   from    a   dear    dead 
mother  — 

Hush !  there  's  a  tear  that  has  no  business  here, 
A  half -formed  sigh  that  ere  its  birth  we  smother. 

We  cry,  we  laugh ;  ah,  life  is  half  and  half, 
Now  bright  and  joyous  as  a  song  of  Herrick's, 

Then  chill  and  bare  as  funeral-minded  Blair; 
As  fickle  as  a  female  in  hysterics. 

If  I  could  make  you  cry  I  would  n't  try; 

If  you  have  hidden  smiles  I  'd  like  to  find  them, 
And  that  although,  as  well  I  ought  to  know, 

The  lips  of  laughter  have  a  skull  behind  them. 

Yet  when  I  think  we  may  be  on  the  brink 
Of  having  Freedom's  banner  to  dispose  of, 

All  crimson-hued,  because  the  Nation  would 
Insist  on  cutting  its  own  precious  nose  off, 


HOW  NOT   TO  SETTLE  IT  361 

I  feel  indeed  as  if  we  rather  need 

A  sermon  such  as  preachers  tie  a  text  on. 

If  Freedom  dies  because  a  ballot  lies, 

She  earns  her  grave;  't  is  time  to  call  the  sexton! 

But  if  a  fight  can  make  the  matter  right, 

Here  are  we,  classmates,  thirty  men  of  mettle ; 

We  're  strong  and  tough,  we  've  lived  nigh  long 

enough,  — 
What  if  the  Nation  gave  it  us  to  settle  ? 

The  tale  would  read  like  that  illustrious  deed 
When  Curtius  took  the  leap  the  gap  that  filled 
in, 

Thus :  "  Fivescore  years,  good  friends,  as  it  appears, 
At  last  this  people  split  on  Hayes  and  Tilden. 

"One  half  cried,  «  See!  the  choice  is  S.  J.  T. ! ' 
And  one  half  swore  as  stoutly  it  was  t'  other; 

Both  drew  the  knife  to  save  the  Nation's  life 
By  wholesale  vivisection  of  each  other. 

"  Then  rose  in  mass  that  monumental  Class,  — 
4  Hold !  hold ! '  they  cried,  '  give  us,  give  us  the 
daggers ! ' 

*  Content !  content ! '  exclaimed  with  one  consent 
The  gaunt  ex-rebels  and  the  carpet-baggers. 

"Fifteen  each  side,  the  combatants  divide, 
So  nicely  balanced  are  their  predilections ; 

And  first  of  all  a  tear-drop  each  lets  fall, 
A  tribute  to  their  obsolete  affections. 


362          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

"Man  facing  man,  the  sanguine  strife  began, 
Jack,  Jim  and  Joe  against  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry, 

Each  several  pair  its  own  account  to  square, 
Till  both  were  down  or  one  stood  solitary. 

"And  the  great  fight  raged  furious  all  the  night 
Till  every  integer  was  made  a  fraction ; 

Reader,  wouldst  know  what  history  has  to  show 
As  net  result  of  the  above  transaction? 

"Whole  coat-tails,  four;   stray  fragments,  several 

score ; 

A  heap  of  spectacles;  a  deaf  man's  trumpet; 
Six  lawyers'  briefs;  seven  pocket-handkerchiefs; 
Twelve  canes  wherewith  the  owners  used  to  stump 
it; 

"  Odd  rubber-shoes ;  old  gloves  of  different  hues ; 

Tax  -  bills,  —  unpaid,  —  and     several     empty 

purses ; 
And,  saved  from  harm  by  some  protecting  charm, 

A  printed  page  with  Smith's  immortal  verses; 

"Trifles  that  claim  no  very  special  name,  — 
Some  useful,  others  chiefly  ornamental; 

Pins,  buttons,  rings,  and  other  trivial  things, 
With  various  wrecks,  capillary  and  dental. 

"Also,  one  flag,  —  'twas  nothing  but  a  rag, 
And  what  device  it  bore  it  little  matters ; 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  but  rent  all  through  and 

through, 
4  Union  forever  '  torn  to  shreds  and  tatters. 


HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT  363 

"They  fought  so  well  not  one  was  left  to  tell 
Which  got  the  largest  share  of  cuts  and  slashes; 

When  heroes  meet,  both  sides  are  bound  to  beat ; 
They  telescoped  like  cars  in  railroad  smashes. 

"  So  the  great  split  that  baffled  human  wit 

And  might  have  cost  the  lives  of  twenty  millions, 

As  all  may  see  that  know  the  rule  of  three, 
Was  settled  just  as  well  by  these  civilians. 

"  As  well.     Just  so.     Not  worse,  not  better.     No, 
Next  morning  found  the  Nation  still  divided; 

Since  all  were  slain,  the  inference  is  plain 

They  left  the  point  they  fought  for  undecided." 


If  not  quite  true,  as  I  have  told  it  you,  — 

This  tale  of  mutual  extermination, 
To   minds  perplexed  with  threats  of  what  comes 
next, 

Perhaps  may  furnish  food  for  contemplation. 

To  cut  men's   throats   to  help   them  count  their 
votes 

Is  asinine  —  nay,  worse  —  ascidian  folly ; 
Blindness  like  that  would  scare  the  mole  and  bat, 

And  make  the  liveliest  monkey  melancholy. 

I  say  once  more,  as  I  have  said  before, 
If  voting  for  our  Tildens  and  our  Hayeses 

Means  only  fight,  then,  Liberty,  good  night! 
Pack  up  your  ballot-box  and  go  to  blazes ! 


364         POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS  OF  '29 

Unfurl  your  blood-red  flags,  you  murderous  hags, 
You  petroleuses  of  Paris,  fierce  and  foamy ; 

We  '11  sell  our  stock  in  Plymouth's  blasted  rock, 
Pull  up  our  stakes  and  migrate  to  Dahomey ! 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR 
1878 

YES!  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we  are  going, 

going  fast, 
And  the  thought  comes  strangely  o'er  me,  who  will 

live  to  be  the  last? 
When  the  twentieth  century's  sunbeams  climb  the 

far-off  eastern  hill, 
With  his  ninety  winters  burdened,  will  he  greet  the 

morning  still? 

Will  he  stand  with  Harvard's  nurslings  when  they 

hear  their  mother's  call 
And  the  old  and  young  are  gathered  in  the  many 

alcoved  hall? 
Will  he  answer  to  the  summons  when  they  range 

themselves  in  line 
And  the    young  mustachioed  marshal    calls  out 

"Class  of '29"? 

Methinks  I  see  the  column  as  its  lengthened  ranks 
appear 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  morrow  of  the  nineteen  hun 
dredth  year; 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR  365 

Through  the  yard  't  is  creeping,  winding,  by  the 
walls  of  dusky  red,  — 

What  shape  is  that  which  totters  at  the  long  pro 
cession's  head? 

Who   knows   this  ancient  graduate   of   fourscore 

years  and  ten,  — 
What  place  he  held,  what  name  he  bore  among  the 

sons  of  men? 
So  speeds  the  curious  question ;  its  answer  travels 

slow; 
"  'T  is  the  last  of  sixty  classmates  of  seventy  years 

ago." 

His  figure  shows  but  dimly,  his  face  I  scarce  can 

see, — 
There  's   something  that   reminds  me,  —  it  looks 

like  —  is  it  he? 
He  ?     Who  ?    No  voice  may  whisper  what  wrinkled 

brow  shall  claim 
The  wreath  of  stars  that  circles  our  last  survivor's 

name. 

Will  he  be  some  veteran  minstrel,  left  to  pipe  in 

feeble  rhyme 
All  the  stories  and  the  glories  of  our  gay  and 

golden  time? 
Or  some  quiet,  voiceless  brother  in  whose  lonely, 

loving  breast 
Fond  memory  broods  in  silence,  like  a  dove  upon 

her  nest? 


366          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Will  it  be  some  old  Emeritus,  who  taught  so  long 

ago 
The  boys  that  heard   him  lecture   have   heads  as 

white  as  snow? 
Or  a  pious,  painful  preacher,  holding  forth  from 

year  to  year 
Till  his  colleague  got  a  colleague  whom  the  young 

folks  flocked  to  hear? 

Will  it  be  a  rich  old  merchant  in  a  square-tied 
white  cravat, 

Or  select  -  man  of  a  village  in  a  pre-historic 
hat? 

Will  his  dwelling  be  a  mansion  in  a  marble -fronted 
row, 

Or  a  homestead  by  a  hillside  where  the  huckleber 
ries  grow? 

I  can  see  our  one  survivor,  sitting  lonely  by  him 
self,  — 

All  his  college  text-books  round  him,  ranged  in 
order  on  their  shelf ; 

There  are  classic  "  interliners "  filled  with  learn 
ing's  choicest  pith, 

Each  cum  notis  variorum,  quas  recensuit  doctus 
Smith ; 

Physics,  metaphysics,  logic,  mathematics  —  all  the 

lot 
Every  wisdom-crammed  octavo   he   has   mastered 

and  forgot, 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR  367 

With  the  ghosts  of  dead  professors  standing  guard 
beside  them  all ; 

And  the  room  is  full  of  shadows  which  their  let 
tered  backs  recall. 

How  the  past  spreads  out  in  vision  with  its  far 
receding  train, 

Like  a  long  embroidered  arras  in  the  chambers  of 
the  brain, 

From  opening  manhood's  morning  when  first  we 
learned  to  grieve 

To  the  fond  regretful  moments  of  our  sorrow-sad 
dened  eve! 

What  early  shadows  darkened  our  idle  summer's 

j°y 

When  death  snatched  roughly  from  us  that  lovely 

bright-eyed  boy ! 
The  years  move  swiftly  onwards ;  the  deadly  shafts 

fall  fast,  — 
Till  all  have  dropped   around  him  —  lo,  there  he 

stands,  —  the  last ! 

Their  faces  flit  before  him,  some  rosy-hued  and 

fair, 
Some  strong  in  iron  manhood,  some  worn  with  toil 

and  care; 
Their  smiles  no  more  shall  greet  him   on  cheeks 

with  pleasure  flushed ! 
The  friendly  hands  are  folded,  the  pleasant  voices 

hushed ! 


368          POEMS  OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

My  picture  sets  me  dreaming ;  alas !  and  can  it  be 
Those  two  familiar  faces  we  never  more  may  see  ? 
In  every  entering  footfall  I  think  them  drawing 

near, 
With  every  door  that  opens  I  say,  "At  last  they  're 

here!" 

The  willow  bends  unbroken  when  angry  tempests 

blow, 
The  stately  oak  is  levelled  and  all  its  strength  laid 

low; 
So  fell  that  tower  of  manhood,  undaunted,  patient, 

strong, 
White  with  the  gathering  snowflakes,  who  faced 

the  storm  so  long. 

And  he,  —  what  subtle  phrases  their  varying  light 

must  blend 
To  paint   as  each  remembers  our  many-featured 

friend ! 

His  wit  a  flash  auroral  that  laughed  in  every  look, 
His  talk  a  sunbeam  broken  on  the  ripples  of  a 

brook, 

Or,  fed  from  thousand  sources,  a  fountain's  glitter 
ing  jet, 

Or  careless  handfuls  scattered  of  diamond  sparks 
unset; 

Ah,  sketch  him,  paint  him,  mould  him  in  every 
shape  you  will, 

He  was  himself — the  only  —  the  one  unpictured 
still! 


THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND   GIL  BLAS     369 

Farewell !  our  skies  are  darkened  and  yet  the  stars 

will  shine, 
We  '11  close  our  ranks  together  and  still  fall  into 

line 

Till  one  is  left,  one  only,  to  mourn  for  all  the  rest ; 
And  Heaven  bequeath  their  memories  to  him  who 

loves  us  best! 


THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND  GIL   BLAS 

A  MODERNIZED  VERSION 
1879 

I  DON'T  think  I  feel  much  older ;  I  'm  aware  I  'm 

rather  gray, 
But  so  are  many  young  folks;  I  meet  'em  every 

day. 
I  confess  I  'm  more  particular  in  what  I  eat  and 

drink, 
But  one's  taste  improves  with  culture;  that  is  all 

it  means,  I  think. 

Can  you  read  as  once  you  used  to  ?     Well,  the 

printing  is  so  bad, 
No  young  folks'  eyes  can  read  it  like  the  books 

that  once  we  had. 
Are  you  quite  as  quick  of  hearing  ?    Please  to  say 

that  once  again. 
Don't  I  use  plain  words,  your  Reverence?    Yes, 

I  often  use  a  cane, 


370          POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

But  it's   not  because  I  need  it, — no,  I  always 

liked  a  stick; 
And  as  one   might  lean   upon  it,   't  is  as  well  it 

should  be  thick. 
Oh,  I  'm  smart,  I  'm  spry,  I  'm  lively,  —  I  can 

walk,  yes,  that  I  can, 
On  the  days  1  feel  like  walking,  just  as  well  as 

you,  young  man ! 

Don't  you  get  a  little  sleepy  after  dinner  every 

day? 
"Well,  I  doze  a  little,  sometimes,  but  that  always 

was  my  way. 
Don't  you  cry  a  little  easier  than  some  twenty 

years  ago  ? 
Well,  my  heart  is  very  tender,  but  I  think  't  was 

always  so. 

Don't  you  find  it  sometimes  happens  that  you 
can't  recall  a  name  ? 

Yes,  I  know  such  lots  of  people,  —  but  my  mem 
ory  's  not  to  blame. 

What!  You  think  my  memory  's  failing! 
Why,  it 's  just  as  bright  and  clear,  — 

I  remember  my  great-grandma!  She  's  been  dead 
these  sixty  year ! 

Is  your  voice  a  little  trembly  ?  Well,  it  may  be, 
now  and  then, 

But  I  write  as  well  as  ever  with  a  good  old-fash 
ioned  pen; 


THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND   GIL  BLAS      371 

It 's  the  Gillotts  make  the  trouble,  — not  at  all  my 

finger-ends,  — 
That  is  why  my  hand  looks  shaky  when  I  sign  for 

dividends. 

Don't  you  stoojt  a  little,  walking?    It  's  a  way 

I  've  always  had, 
I  have  always  been  round-shouldered,  ever  since  I 

was  a  lad. 
Don't  you  hate  to  tie  your  shoe-strings  ?     Yes,  I 

own  it  —  that  is  true. 
Don't  you  tell  old  stories  over?     I  am  not  aware 

I  do. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings  ?     Don't  you 

love  a  cushioned  seat 
In  a  corner,  by  the  fireside,  with  your  slippers  on 

your  feet  ? 
Don't  you  wear  warm  fleecy  flannels  ?     Don't  you 

muffle  up  your  throat  ? 
Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when  you  're 

putting  on  your  coat  ? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you  've  dogs-eared,  you 

can't  remember  when  ? 
Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and  go  to 

bed  at  ten  ? 
How  many  cronies  can  you  count  of  all  you  used 

to  know 
Who  called  you  by  your  Christian  name  some  fifty 

years  ago  ? 


372  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

How  look  the,  prizes  to  you  that  used  to  Jire  y&ur 

brain  ? 
You  've  reared  your  mound —  how  high  is  it  above 

the  level  plain  ? 
You  've   drained  the   brimming  golden   cup   that 

made  your  fancy  reel? 
You  've  slept  the  giddy  potion  off,  —  now  tell  us 

how  you  feel! 

You  've  watched  the  harvest  ripening  till  every  stem 

was  cropped, 
You  've  seen  the  rose  of  beauty  fade  till  every  petal 

dropped, 
You  've  told  your  thought,  you  've  done  your  task, 

you  've  tracked  your  dial  round, 
—  I  backing   down !      Thank    Heaven,    not  yet ! 

I  'm  hale  and  brisk  and  sound, 

And  good  for  many  a  tussle,  as  you  shall  live  to 

see; 
My  shoes  are  not  quite  ready  yet,  —  don't  think 

you  're  rid  of  me ! 
Old  Parr  was  in   his   lusty  prime  when  he   was 

older  far, 
And  where  will  you  be  if  I  live  to  beat  old  Thomas 

Parr? 

Ah  well,  —  /  know,  —  at  every  age  life  has  a  cer 
tain  charm,  — 

You  're  going  ?  Come,  permit  me,  please,  I  beg 
you  'II  take  my  arm. 


THE  SHADOWS  373 

I  take  your   arm!     Why  take  your  arm?     I'd 

thank  you  to  be  told 
I  'm  old  enough  to  walk  alone,  but  not  so  very  old! 


THE  SHADOWS 
1880 

"How  many  have  gone?  "  was  the  question  of  old 
Ere  Time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels  bereft ; 

Alas !  for  too  often  the  death-bell  has  tolled, 
And  the  question  we  ask  is,   "How  many  are 
left?" 

Bright  sparkled  the   wine;  there   were  fifty  that 

quaffed ; 
For  a  decade  had   slipped  and  had  taken  but 

three. 
How  they  frolicked  and  sung,  how  they  shouted 

and  laughed, 

Like  a  school  full  of  boys  from  their  benches  set 
free! 

There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there  were  stories 

and  rhymes, 
The  hall  shook  its  sides  with  their  merriment's 

noise ; 
As  they   talked  and  lived    over  the   college-day 

times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their  old  name  of  "The 
Boys"! 


374          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhythmical  flow 
With  mornings   like   maidens   that   pouted  or 

smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf  and  the  fruit  and  the 

snow, 

And  the  year-books  of  Time  in  his  alcoves  were 
piled. 

There  were  forty  that  gathered  where  fifty  had  met ; 
Some  locks  had   got   silvered,  some   lives   had 

grown  sere, 

But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty  as  yet, 
And  the  song  of  the  singers  rose   ringing  and 
clear. 

Still  flitted  the  years ;  there  were  thirty  that  came ; 
"The  Boys"  they  were  still,  and  they  answered 

their  call; 
There  were  foreheads  of  care,  but  the  smiles  were 

the  same, 

And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through  the  garlanded 
hall. 

The    hour-hand    moved    on,    and    they  gathered 

again ; 
There  were  twenty  that  joined  in  the  hymn  that 

was  sung; 

But  ah !  for  our  song-bird  we  listened  in  vain,  — 
The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's  that  rung! 

How  narrow  the  circle  that  holds  us  to-night ! 
How  many  the  loved  ones  that  greet  us  no  more, 


BENJAMIN  PEIRCE  375 

As  we  meet  like  the  stragglers  that  come  from  the 

fight, 

Like  the  mariners  flung  from  a  wreck  on  the 
shore ! 

We  look  through  the  twilight  for  those  we  have 

lost; 
The  stream  rolls  between  us,  and  yet  they  seem 

near; 

Already  outnumbered  by  those  who  have  crossed, 
Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is  not  here ! 

They  smile  on  us  still  —  is  it  only  a  dream  ?  — 

While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names  we  recall ; 
They  beckon  —  they  come  —  they  are  crossing  the 

stream  — 

Lo!  the   Shadows!  the  Shadows!  room  —  room 
for  them  all! 


BENJAMIN  PEIRCE 

ASTRONOMER,   MATHEMATICIAN.      1809-1890 
1881 

FOR  him  the  Architect  of  all 
Unroofed  our  planet's  starlit  hall ; 
Through  voids  unknown  to  worlds  unseen 
His  clearer  vision  rose  serene. 

With  us  on  earth  he  walked  by  day, 
His  midnight  path  how  far  away ! 


376          POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS    OF  '29 

We  knew  him  not  so  well  who  knew 
The  patient  eyes  his  soul  looked  through; 

For  who  his  untrod  realm  could  share 
Of  us  that  breathe  this  mortal  air, 
Or  camp  in  that  celestial  tent 
Whose  fringes  gild  our  firmament? 

How  vast  the  workroom  where  he  brought 
The  viewless  implements  of  thought! 
The  wit  how  subtle,  how  profound, 
That  Nature's  tangled  webs  unwound; 

That  through  the  clouded  matrix  saw 
The  crystal  planes  of  shaping  law, 
Through  these  the  sovereign  skill  that  planned, 
The  Father's  care,  the  Master's  hand ! 

To  him  the  wandering  stars  revealed 
The  secrets  in  their  cradle  sealed : 
The  far-off,  frozen  sphere  that  swings 
Through  ether,  zoned  with  lucid  rings ; 

The  orb  that  rolls  in  dim  eclipse 
Wide  wheeling  round  its  long  ellipse,  — 
His  name  Urania  writes  with  these 
And  stamps  it  on  her  Pleiades. 

We  knew  him  not?     Ah,  well  we  knew 
The  manly  soul,  so  brave,  so  true, 
The  cheerful  heart  that  conquered  age, 
The  childlike  silver-bearded  sage. 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT  377 

No  more  his  tireless  thought  explores 
The  azure  sea  with  golden  shores ; 
Rest,  wearied  frame !  the  stars  shall  keep 
A  loving  watch  where  thou  shalt  sleep. 

Farewell !  the  spirit  needs  must  rise, 
So  long  a  tenant  of  the  skies,  — 
Rise  to  that  home  all  worlds  above 
Whose  sun  is  God,  whose  light  is  love. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

1882 

NOT  bed-tune  yet !     The  night-winds  blow, 
The  stars  are  out,  —  full  well  we  know 

The  nurse  is  on  the  stair, 
With  hand  of  ice  and  cheek  of  snow, 
And  frozen  lips  that  whisper  low, 
"Come,  children,  it  is  time  to  go 

My  peaceful  couch  to  share." 

No  years  a  wakeful  heart  can  tire ; 
Not  bed-time  yet !     Come,  stir  the  fire 

And  warm  your  dear  old  hands ; 
Rind  Mother  Earth  we  love  so  well 
Has  pleasant  stories  yet  to  tell 
Before  we  hear  the  curfew  bell ; 

Still  glow  the  burning  brands. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     We  long  to  know 

What  wonders  time  has  yet  to  show, 

What  unborn  years  shall  bring ; 


378  POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

What  ship  the  Arctic  pole  shall  reach, 
What  lessons  Science  waits  to  teach, 
What  sermons  there  are  left  to  preach. 
What  poems  yet  to  sing. 

What  next  ?  we  ask ;  and  is  it  true 
The  sunshine  falls  on  nothing  new, 

As  Israel's  king  declared? 
Was  ocean  ploughed  with  harnessed  fire? 
Were  nations  coupled  with  a  wire? 
Did  Tarshish  telegraph  to  Tyre? 

How  Hiram  would  have  stared ! 

And  what  if  Sheba's  curious  queen, 
Who  came  to  see,  —  and  to  be  seen, — 

Or  something  new  to  seek, 
And  swooned,  as  ladies  sometimes  do, 
At  sights  that  thrilled  her  through  and  through, 
Had  heard,  as  she  was  "coming  to," 

A  locomotive's  shriek, 

And  seen  a  rushing  railway  train 
As  she  looked  out  along  the  plain 

From  David's  lofty  tower, — 
A  mile  of  smoke  that  blots  the  sky 
And  blinds  the  eagles  as  they  fly 
Behind  the  cars  that  thunder  by 

A  score  of  leagues  an  hour  I 

See  to  my  fiat  lux  respond 
This  little  slumbering  fire-tipped  wand,  — 
One  touch,  —  it  bursts  in  flame ! 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT  379 

Steal  me  a  portrait  from  the  sun,  — 
One  look,  — and  lo!  the  picture  done! 
Are  these  old  tricks,  King  Solomon, 
We  lying  moderns  claim? 

Could  you  have  spectroscoped  a  star? 
If  both  those  mothers  at  your  bar, 

The  cruel  and  the  mild, 
The  young  and  tender,  old  and  tough, 
Had    said,     "Divide, — you're    right,    though 

rough,"  — 
Did  old  Judea  know  enough 

To  etherize  the  child? 

These  births  of  time  our  eyes  have  seen, 
With  but  a  few  brief  years  between; 

What  wonder  if  the  text, 
For  other  ages  doubtless  true, 
For  coming  years  will  never  do,  — 
Whereof  we  all  should  like  a  few, 

If  but  to  see  what  next. 

If  such  things  have  been,  such  may  be; 
Who  would  not  like  to  live  and  see  — 

If  Heaven  may  so  ordain  — 
What  waifs  undreamed  of,  yet  in  store, 
The  waves  that  roll  forevermore 
On  life's  long  beach  may  cast  ashore 

From  out  the  mist-clad  main? 

Will  Earth  to  pagan  dreams  return 
To  find  from  misery's  painted  urn 
That  all  save  hope  has  flown,  — 


380  POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29 

Of  Book  and  Church  and  Priest  bereft, 
The  Rock  of  Ages  vainly  cleft, 
Life's  compass  gone,  its  anchor  left, 
Left,  —  lost,  —  in  depths  unknown  ? 

Shall  Faith  the  trodden  path  pursue 
The  crux  ansdta  wearers  knew 

Who  sleep  with  folded  hands, 
Where,  like  a  naked,  lidless  eye, 
The  staring  Nile  rolls  wandering  by 
Those  mountain  slopes  that  climb  the  sky 

Above  the  drifting  sands? 

Or  shall  a  nobler  Faith  return, 
Its  fanes  a  purer  gospel  learn, 

With  holier  anthems  ring, 
And  teach  us  that  our  transient  creeds 
Were  but  the  perishable  seeds 
Of  harvests  sown  for  larger  needs, 

That  ripening  years  shall  bring? 

Well,  let  the  present  do  its  best, 
We  trust  our  Maker  for  the  rest, 

As  on  our  way  we  plod ; 
Our  souls,  full  dressed  in  fleshly  suits, 
Love  air  and  sunshine,  flowers  and  fruits, 
The  daisies  better  than  their  roots 

Beneath  the  grassy  sod. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     The  full-blown  flower 
Of  all  the  year  —  this  evening  hour  — • 
With  friendship's  flame  is  bright; 


A   LOVING-CUP  SONG  381 

Life  still  is  sweet,  the  heavens  are  fair, 
Though  fields  are  brown  and  woods  are  bare, 
And  many  a  joy  is  left  to  share 
Before  we  say  Good-night ! 

And  when,  our  cheerful  evening  past, 
The  nurse,  long  waiting,  comes  at  last, 

Ere  on  her  lap  we  lie 
In  wearied  nature's  sweet  repose, 
At  peace  with  all  her  waking  foes, 
Our  lips  shall  murmur,  ere  they  close, 

Good-night !  and  not  Good-by ! 


A  LOVING-CUP  SONG 

1883 

COME,  heap  the  fagots !     Ere  we  go 
Again  the  cheerful  hearth  shall  glow; 

We  '11  have  another  blaze,  my  boys ! 
When  clouds  are  black  and  snows  are  white, 
Then  Christmas  logs  lend  ruddy  light 

They  stole  from  summer  days,  my  boys, 
They  stole  from  summer  days. 

And  let  the  Loving-Cup  go  round, 

The  Cup  with  blessed  memories  crowned, 

That  flows  whene'er  we  meet,  my  boys; 
No  draught  will  hold  a  drop  of  sin 
If  love  is  only  well  stirred  in 

To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet,  my  boys, 
To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet. 


382          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

Give  me,  to  pin  upon  my  breast, 
The  blossoms  twain  I  love  the  best, 

A  rosebud  and  a  pink,  my  boys ; 
Their  leaves  shall  nestle  next  my  heart, 
Their  perfumed  breath  shall  own  its  part 

In  every  health  we  drink,  my  boys, 
In  every  health  we  drink. 

The  breathing  blossoms  stir  my  blood, 
Methinks  I  see  the  lilacs  bud 

And  hear  the  bluebirds  sing,  my  boys; 
Why  not?     Yon  lusty  oak  has  seen 
Full  tenscore  years,  yet  leaflets  green 

Peep  out  with  every  spring,  my  boys, 
Peep  out  with  every  spring. 

Old  Time  his  rusty  scythe  may  whet, 
The  unmowed  grass  is  glowing  yet 

Beneath  the  sheltering  snow,  my  boys; 
And  if  the  crazy  dotard  ask, 
Is  love  worn  out?     Is  life  a  task? 

We  '11  bravely  answer  No !  my  boys, 
We  '11  bravely  answer  No! 

For  life's  bright  taper  is  the  same 
Love  tipped  of  old  with  rosy  flame 

That  heaven's  own  altar  lent,  my  boys, 
To  glow  in  every  cup  we  fill 
Till  lips  are  mute  and  hearts  are  still, 

Till  life  and  love  are  spent,  my  boys, 
Till  life  and  love  are  spent. 


THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP          383 

THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

1884 

SHE  gathered  at  her  slender  waist 

The  beauteous  robe  she  wore ; 
Its  folds  a  golden  belt  embraced, 

One  rose-hued  gem  it  bore. 

The  girdle  shrank;  its  lessening  round 

Still  kept  the  shining  gem, 
But  now  her  flowing  locks  it  bound, 

A  lustrous  diadem. 

And  narrower  still  the  circlet  grew ; 

Behold !  a  glittering  band, 
Its  roseate  diamond  set  anew, 

Her  neck's  white  column  spanned. 

Suns  rise  and  set ;  the  straining  clasp 

The  shortened  links  resist, 
Yet  flashes  in  a  bracelet's  grasp 

The  diamond,  on  her  wrist. 

At  length,  the  round  of  changes  past 
The  thieving  years  could  bring, 

The  jewel,  glittering  to  the  last, 
Still  sparkles  in  a  ring. 

So,  link  by  link,  our  friendships  part, 

So  loosen,  break,  and  fall, 
A  narrowing  zone ;  the  loving  heart 

Lives  changeless  through  them  all. 


384          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON 

1885 

THE  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay 
Of  love  and  wine  who  sings 

Still  found  the  fingers  run  astray 
That  touched  the  rebel  strings. 

Of  Cadmus  he  would  fain  have  sung, 

Of  Atreus  and  his  line ; 
But  all  the  jocund  echoes  rung 

With  songs  of  love  and  wine. 

Ah,  brothers !  I  would  fain  have  caught 
Some  fresher  fancy's  gleam; 

My  truant  accents  find,  unsought, 
The  old  familiar  theme. 

Love,  Love !  but  not  the  sportive  child 
With  shaft  and  twanging  bow, 

Whose  random  arrows  droA*e  us  wild 
Some  threescore  years  ago; 

Not  Eros,  with  his  joyous  laugh, 
The  urchin  blind  and  bare, 

But  Love,  with  spectacles  and  staff, 
And  scanty,  silvered  hair. 

Our  heads  with  frosted  locks  are  white, 
Our  roofs  are  thatched  with  snow, 

But  red,  in  chilling  winter's  spite, 
Our  hearts  and  hearthstones  glow. 


THE  LYRE   OF  ANACREON  385 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Time,  drops  in, 

And  while  the  running  sands 
Their  golden  thread  unheeded  spin, 

He  warms  his  frozen  hands. 

Stay,  winged  hours,  too  swift,  too  sweet, 

And  waft  this  message  o'er 
To  all  we  miss,  from  all  we  meet 

On  life's  fast-crumbling  shore: 

Say  that,  to  old  affection  true, 

We  hug  the  narrowing  chain 
That  binds  our  hearts,  —  alas,  how  few 

The  links  that  yet  remain ! 

The  fatal  touch  awaits  them  all 

That  turns  the  rocks  to  dust ; 
From  year  to  year  they  break  and  fall,  — 

They  break,  but  never  rust. 

Say  if  one  note  of  happier  strain 

This  worn-out  harp  afford,  — 
One  throb  that  trembles,  not  in  vain,  — 

Their  memory  lent  its  chord. 

Say  that  when  Fancy  closed  her  wings 

And  Passion  quenched  his  fire, 
Love,  Love,  still  echoed  from  the  strings 

As  from  Anacreon's  lyre! 


386         POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 
THE  OLD  TUNE 

THIRTY-SIXTH   VARIATION 

1886 

THIS  shred  of  song  you  bid  me  bring 
Is  snatched  from  fancy's  embers; 

Ah,  when  the  lips  forget  to  sing, 
The  faithful  heart  remembers! 

Too  swift  the  wings  of  envious  Time 
To  wait  for  dallying  phrases, 

Or  woven  strands  of  labored  rhyme 
To  thread  their  cunning  mazes. 

A  word,  a  sigh,  and  lo,  how  plain 

Its  magic  breath  discloses 
Our  life's  long  vista  through  a  lane 

Of  threescore  summers'  roses ! 

One  language  years  alone  can  teach: 
Its  roots  are  young  affections 

That  feel  their  way  to  simplest  speech 
Through  silent  recollections. 

That  tongue  is  ours.     How  few  the  words 
We  need  to  know  a  brother ! 

As  simple  are  the  notes  of  birds, 
Yet  well  they  know  each  other. 

This  freezing  month  of  ice  and  snow 
That  brings  our  lives  together 


THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE  387 

Lends  to  our  year  a  living  glow 
That  warms  its  wintry  weather. 

So  let  us  meet  as  eve  draws  nigh, 
And  life  matures  and  mellows, 

Till  Nature  whispers  with  a  sigh, 
"  Good-night,  my  dear  old  fellows  I " 


THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE 

1887 

I  STOOD  on  Sarum's  treeless  plain, 
The  waste  that  careless  Nature  owns; 

Lone  tenants  of  her  bleak  domain, 

Loomed  huge  and  gray  the  Druid  stones. 

Upheaved  in  many  a  billowy  mound 

The  sea-like,  naked  turf  arose, 
Where  wandering  flocks  went  nibbling  round 

The  mingled  graves  of  friends  and  foes. 

The  Briton,  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane, 
This  windy  desert  roamed  in  turn; 

Unmoved  these  mighty  blocks  remain 
Whose  story  none  that  lives  may  learn. 

Erect,  half  buried,  slant  or  prone, 

These  awful  listeners,  blind  and  dumb, 

Hear  the  strange  tongues  of  tribes  unknown, 
As  wave  on  wave  they  go  and  come. 


388          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

"Who  are  you,  giants,  whence  and  why?'* 

I  stand  and  ask  in  blank  amaze ; 
My  soul  accepts  their  mute  reply : 
"A  mystery,  as  are  you  that  gaze. 

"A  silent  Orpheus  wrought  the  charm 

From  riven  rocks  their  spoils  to  bring; 
A  nameless  Titan  lent  his  arm 
To  range  us  in  our  magic  ring. 

"But  Time  with  still  and  stealthy  stride, 
That  climbs  and  treads  and  levels  all, 
That  bids  the  loosening  keystone  slide, 
And  topples  down  the  crumbling  wall,  — 

"Time,  that  unbuilds  the  quarried  past, 

Leans  on  these  wrecks  that  press  the  sod; 
They  slant,  they  stoop,  they  fall  at  last, 
And  strew  the  turf  their  priests  have  trod. 

"No  more  our  altar's  wreath  of  smoke 

Floats  up  with  morning's  fragrant  dew; 
The  fires  are  dead,  the  ring  is  broke, 
Where  stood  the  many  stand  the  few.'* 

My  thoughts  had  wandered  far  away, 
Borne  off  on  Memory's  outspread  wing, 

To  where  in  deepening  twilight  lay 

The  wrecks  of  friendship's  broken  ring. 

Ah  me !  of  all  our  goodly  train 

How  few  will  find  our  banquet  hall! 


THE  ANGEL-THIEF  389 

Yet  why  with  coward  lips  complain 

That  this  must  lean,  and  that  must  fall? 

Cold  is  the  Druid's  altar-stone, 

Its  vanished  flame  no  more  returns ; 

But  ours  no  chilling  damp  has  known,  — 
Unchanged,  unchanging,  still  it  burns. 

So  let  our  broken  circle  stand 

A  wreck,  a  remnant,  yet  the  same, 

While  one  last,  loving,  faithful  hand 
Still  lives  to  feed  its  altar-flame  I 


THE  ANGEL-THIEF 

1888 

TIME  is  a  thief  who  leaves  his  tools  behind  him; 

He  comes  by  night,  he  vanishes  at  dawn ; 
We  track  his  footsteps,  but  we  never  find  him : 

Strong  locks  are  broken,  massive  bolts  are  drawn, 

And  all  around  are  left  the  bars  and  borers, 
The  splitting  wedges  and  the  prying  keys, 

Such  aids  as  serve  the  soft-shod  vault-explorers 
To  crack,  wrench  open,  rifle  as  they  please. 

Ah,  these  are  tools  which  Heaven  in  mercy  lends  us ! 

When  gathering  rust  has  clenched  our  shackles 

fast, 
Time  is  the  angel-thief  that  Nature  sends  us 

To  break  the  cramping  fetters  of  our  past. 


390          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29 

Mourn  as  we  may  for  treasures  lie  has  taken, 
Poor  as  we  feel  of  hoarded  wealth  bereft, 

More  precious  are  those  implements  forsaken, 
Found  in  the  wreck  his  ruthless  hands  have  left. 

Some  lever  that  a  casket's  hinge  has  broken 
Pries  off  a  bolt,  and  lo !  our  souls  are  free ; 

Each  year  some  Open  Sesame  is  spoken, 
And  every  decade  drops  its  master-key. 

So  as  from  year  to  year  we  count  our  treasure, 
Our  loss  seems  less,  and  larger  look  our  gains ; 

Time's  wrongs   repaid   in  more  than   even  meas 
ure,  — 
We  lose  our  jewels,  but  we  break  our  chains. 


AFTER  THE  CURFEW 

1889 

THE  Play  is  over.     While  the  light 
Yet  lingers  in  the  darkening  hall, 

I  come  to  say  a  last  Good-night 
Before  the  final  JZxeunt  all. 

We  gathered  once,  a  joyous  throng: 
The  jovial  toasts  went  gayly  round; 

With  jest,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song, 
We  made  the  floors  and  walls  resound. 

We  come  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 
A  little  band  of  four  or  five, 


AFTER   THE  CURFEW  391 

Left  from  the  wrecks  of  long  ago, 
Still  pleased  to  find  ourselves  alive. 

Alive !     How  living,  too,  are  they 
Whose  memories  it  is  ours  to  share! 

Spread  the  long  table's  full  array,  — 
There  sits  a  ghost  in  every  chair  ! 

One  breathing  form  no  more,  alas ! 

Amid  our  slender  group  we  see; 
With  him  we  still  remained  "The  Class,"  — 

Without  his  presence  what  are  we? 

The  hand  we  ever  loved  to  clasp,  — 

That  tireless  hand  which  knew  no  rest,  — 

Loosed  from  affection's  clinging  grasp, 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  peaceful  breast. 

The  beaming  eye,  the  cheering  voice, 
That  lent  to  life  a  generous  glow, 

Whose  every  meaning  said  "  Rejoice," 
We  see,  we  hear,  no  more  below. 

The  air  seems  darkened  by  his  loss, 

Earth's  shadowed  features  look  less  fair, 

And  heavier  weighs  the  daily  cross 
His  willing  shoulders  helped  us  bear. 


Why  mourn  that  we,  the  favored  few 
Whom  grasping  Time  so  long  has  spared 

Life's  sweet  illusions  to  pursue, 

The  common  lot  of  age  have  shared  ? 


392          POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29 

In  every  pulse  of  Friendship's  heart 
There  breeds  unfelt  a  throb  of  pain,  — 

One  hour  must  rend  its  links  apart, 

Though  years  on  years  have  forged  the  chain. 


So  ends  "The  Boys,"  —  a  lifelong  play. 

We  too  must  hear  the  Prompter's  call 
To  fairer  scenes  and  brighter  day : 

Farewell !     I  let  the  curtain  f alL 


POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 
THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 

1857-1858 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream 
ing  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  I 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 


394         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting 
sea! 

SUN  AND  SHADOW 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 


MUSA  395 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 

As  he   drifts  on  the  blast,   like   a  wind-wafted 

leaf, 
O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  the  shadows  grow 
dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore  1 


MUSA 

O  MY  lost  beauty!  —  hast  thou  folded  quite 

Thy  wings  of  morning  light 

Beyond  those  iron  gates 

Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  haggard  Fates, 
And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 

To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 

Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in  his  icy 
streams? 


396        POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair! 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong, 
And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  ? 

Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 

Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  alto 
born? 

Come  to  me !  — I  wffl  flood  thy  silent  shrine 

With  my  soul's  sacred  wine, 

And  heap  thy  marble  floors 

As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores, 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 

And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in 
the  breeze. 

Come  to  me !  — thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed  words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds;  — 

No  wailing  bulbuTs  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  stan*  so 
smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a  queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 

Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  twines,  — 


MUSA  397 

Pore   pearls   of    Mavdew    where   the   moonlight 

shines, 

And  Summer' s  fruited  gems, 
And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn's  berried 
stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 
Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 
Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 
Carved  with  old  names  Life's  time-worn  roll  dis 
owns, 
Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o'er  the  crumbled  bones 

Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While  the  sad  Pilgrim  watched  to  scare  the  wolf 
away. 

Spread  o'er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing! 
Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 
Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where     scarlet    cardinals    bloom — for    me    no 

more,  — 
The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 

Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced 
stars! 

Come    while    their    balms    the    linden-blossoms 
shed!  — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 

While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 


398         POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 

Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from    Indian 

isles, 

And  on  the  sultry  air 
The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy  men  in 

prayer ! 

Oh  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 
With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain !  — 
On  life's  autumnal  blast, 
Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth's  passion-flowers  are 

cast, — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  last !  — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 
And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  "For 
ever  thine !  " 


A  PARTING  HEALTH 

TO  J.   L.   MOTLEY 

YES,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though  friend 
ship  may  claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame ; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 
'T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel, 
As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of  steel, 
As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the 

string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 


A  PARTING  HEALTH  399 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom, 
Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties 

shall  bloom, 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glowing  dyes 
That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies ! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 
Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  un 
sung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  be 
queathed  ! 

From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom  they 
breathed ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 

Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp 
with  his  broom ! 

The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and  lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled  shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's   jewels   were   trampled 

and  crushed: 
THE  TRUE   KNIGHT   OF   LEARNING, — the  world 

holds  him  dear,  — 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  bis 

career  1 
1857. 


400         POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 


WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 

Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "good  old  days  " 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The  "best  of  women"  each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown ! 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 


SPRING  HAS  COME  401 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 
Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 

And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 
They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more!" 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know  ; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it:  GOD  is  LOVE! 


SPRING  HAS  COME 

INTRA  MUR03 

THE  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays ; 

For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 


402         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf ; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"Bud,  little  roses!  Spring  is  here!  " 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 


SPRING  HAS   COME  403 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades,  — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide ; 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Hough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 


Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  thrush's  trill,  the  robin's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

Oh  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  - 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below  I 


404         POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 


PROLOGUE 

A  PROLOGUE  ?    Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know,  — 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  —  here  we  go ! 
What  is  a  Prologue?     Let  our  Tutor  teach: 
Pro  means  beforehand;  logos  stands  for  speech. 
'Tis  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings, 
The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings; 
Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine -hose. 
"The  world  's  a  stage,"  —  as  Shakespeare  said,  one 

day; 

The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant  to  say. 
The  outside  world  's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear; 
The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa; 
Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid, 
The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 
One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 
When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 
Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 
Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 
And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief. 
When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech, 
And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 
Cries,   "Help,  kyind  Heaven!"   and  drops  upon 

her  knees 
On    the    green  —  baize,  —  beneath    the    (canvas) 


PROLOGUE  405 

See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly :  — 

"Ha!    Villain!    Draw!     Now,  Terraitorr,  yield 

or  die !  " 

When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionaire, 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 
Sobs  on  his  neck,  "My  boy!  MY  BOY!!     MY 

BOY  111" 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night, 
Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies,  attend  !     While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 
Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 
One  thing  is  certain :  Love  will  triumph  here ! 
Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 
The   world's   great   masters,  when  you  're  out  of 

school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play: 
Man  has  his  will,  —  but  woman  has  her  way ! 
While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire, 
Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 
The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 
Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 
All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 
But  that  one  rebel,  — woman's  wilful  heart. 
All  foes  you  master,  but  a  woman's  wit 
Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  're 

hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 
Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 


406         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade, 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 

One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 

Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy- 
browed, 

Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lighted  with  a  sudden  gleam, 

As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go ; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

"  Why  strikest  not  ?     Perform  thy  murderous  act," 

The  prisoner  said.  (His  voice  was  slightly 
cracked.) 

"Friend,  I  have  struck,  "the  artist  straight  replied ; 

"Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "Now  then,  if  you 
please ! " 

The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the  floor,  — 

Bounced  down  the  steps;  —  the  prisoner  said  no 
more! 

Woman!  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye; 

If  death  lurk  in  it,  oh  how  sweet  to  die ! 

Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head; 

We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  're  dead! 


LATTER-DAY   WARNINGS  407 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 

WHEN  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 
When  berries  —  whortle,  rasp,  and  straw  — 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  - 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 


408        POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  Tunnel's  bore ; 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe ! 


ALBUM  VERSES 

WHEN  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 
And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 
Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter's  art, 
And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 

By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 
Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 

A  million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a  warning ; 
And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 


A   GOOD   TIME  GOING/  409 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 
The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening  dawn 

Till  western  skies  are  burning. 

Alas !  each  hour  of  daylight  tells 

A  tale  of  shame  so  crushing, 
That  some  turn  white  as  sea-bleached  shells, 

And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 

On  all  their  light  discovers, 
The  traitor's  smile,  the  murderer's  frown, 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers, 

They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 

And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

And  so  they  wink  forever. 


A  GOOD  TIME  GOING! 

BRAVE  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 

The  holly -leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good  by !  Good  by !  —  Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies ! 


410        POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

'T  is  here  we  part  ;  —  for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him ! 

His  home !  —  the  Western  giant  smiles, 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it ;  — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles? 

'T  is  but  a  freckle,  —  never  mind  it ! 
He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 
And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 

Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles ! 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 
And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant: 
"An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 
And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended ! " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 
Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 

From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 
Her  valor's  life-blood  runs  in  roses; 


A    GOOD  TIME  GOING/  411 

Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

From  sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together ;  — 
With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 
And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between,  — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 

Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us, 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us. 
Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 

The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 
Behold,  the  half -turned  leaf  displays 

Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  I 

Enough !     To  speed  a  parting  friend 

'T is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen;  — 
Yet  stay,  —  these  feeble  accents  blend 

With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 
Good  by  I  once  more,  —  and  kindly  tell 

In  words  of  peace  the  young  world's  story,  — 
And  say,  besides,  we  love  too  well 

Our  mothers'  soil,  our  fathers'  glory! 


412         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM 

THOUGH  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 
Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles; 

The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 
Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "niece" 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM  413 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 

The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 
When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 

And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 
Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 

Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long ! 
Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 

Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  1 

She  blushes !  All,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold! 

Come  to  my  arms!  — love  heeds  not  years; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows. 
Ha!  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  —  but  not  for  me ; 

Alas !  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 
Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind! 


414         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 
CONTENTMENT 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below  " 

LITTLE  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 

Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names ; 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James; 

I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 

To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 


CONTENTMENT  415 

Jewels  are  baubles ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things ;  — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear;) — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare; 

An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 
Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ;  — 

Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Eaphaels  three  or  four,  — 

I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, 
One  Turner,  and  no  more, 

(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 
Some  little  luxury  there 


416         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 
Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 

I  value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride ;  — 

One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 

Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serTre  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content! 


IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames; 
His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE          417 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine! 

To  me,  alas  !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue ! 

Me  wretched !    Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades ! 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids ! 
Oh,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  — 
Depart,  —  be  off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  —  erump ! 


THE   DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OK,   THE  WONDERFUL   "  ONE-HO88   SHAY  " 
A   LOGICAL   STORY 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 


418         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake- day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

<2A4A1^'/ 
Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out* 
&i *** 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeow") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown: 
"Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — - 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE         419 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum,"  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  — they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery -tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 

"There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she  '11  dew!  " 

Do  !     I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ;  — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ;  — 


420          POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 

Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  Earthquake-day, — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn't  be,  — for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 

In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty -five ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 


The  One-Hoss  Shay 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY  421 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"Huddup!  "  said  the  parson.  — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet 'n' -house  on  the  hill. 

First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaisis  in  a  heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 

PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY 

OR,  THE  PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR 

A  MATHEMATICAL  STORY 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 

At  Cambridge.     Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 

That  's  remarkable  when  I  say 


422         POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT 

It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do. — 
Born  there?     Don't  say  so!     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof, — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof. — 
"  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg, — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof, — 
That 's  the  gambrel;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 
Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen, — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise, — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen, — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four, — 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor : 


PARSON  TURELVS  LEGACY 

Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 

Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 

With  its  freight  of  golden  ore ! 

Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play ;  — 

Better  keep  your  girls  away ; 

Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 

Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 

And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there ; 

I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 

You  've  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  TURELL  ? 

Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell; 

Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk; 

Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak, — 

Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 

Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 

One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 

Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings, — 

But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand, — 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 

Chief  Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 

Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  —  in. 

Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 

To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name; 

These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told : 

"Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde; 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 

To  ye  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 

On  payment  of  "  —  (naming  a  certain  sum)  — 

"  By  him  to  whom  ye  Chaire  shall  come ; 


424         POEMS  FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 

He  to  ye  oldest  Senior  next, 
And  soe  forever,"  —  (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 
"But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claime, 
That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same. " 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS, 
And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 
Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 
Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 
Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 
And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 
And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON  ;  five  got  Dix ; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  wouldn't  count  it,  but  said  "a  heap," 
A  certain  RICHARDS,  —  the  books  declare,  — 
(A.  M.  in  '90?     I  've  looked  with  care 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY  425 

Through  the  Triennial,  — name  not  there,*)  — 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eightscore  pounds,  but  would  have  ten; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  see  the  book. 
By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 

They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 

The  Governor  came  with  his  Lighthorse  Troop 

And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop; 

Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 

French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 

The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their  teeth, 

And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath; 

So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 

Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

The  Governor  "hefted"  the  crowns,  and  said,  — • 

"A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson  's  dead." 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said  he,  — 

"There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  's  my  fee. 


426         POEMS   FROM   THE  AUTOCRAT 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL!  " 
The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 
(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you  '11  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 
And  the  Governor  rose  and  BROKE  THE  WILL! 
"About  those  conditions?"     Well,  now  you  go 
And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 
Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 
If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 
You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 
Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 
The  President  rises ;  both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 
Is  this:  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair? 
And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 
The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name; 
He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the  same. 
And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 
And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 
And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen !     Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 
Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 
To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 


ODE  FOR   A   SOCIAL  MEETING          427 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 
That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat; 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't  spill, 
And  there  's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's  will  I 


ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING 

WITH   SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS   BY  A  TEETOTALER 

COME!  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  nootap  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juiooo  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubioo  shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 

The  purplo  globod  oluator-o  their  life-dews  have  bled; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  f  ragranoo  thoy  ohod  I 

rank  poisons  wines  !  !  I 

For  summer's  laot  roooo  lie  hid  in  the  winoo 

stable-boys  smoking1 

That    were    garnered  by   maidono — who   laughed 

long-nines 

'  tho  vinooi 


scowl  howl  scoff 

Then  a  emilo;  and  a  glaoo;  and  a  toaot;  and  a 

strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer ! 

For  all  the  good  wine-,  and  wo  'vo  oomo  of  it  hero!' 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all  t 

Long  livo  tho  gay  aorvant  that  laugho  for  ua  all  I 


POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT 
THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 

1858-1859 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS 

HER  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 


UNDER    THE   VIOLETS  429 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise  1 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


430         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 

O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our  hearts  still  whispering,  Thou  art  near ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near  1 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near ! 


A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 

LORD  of  all  being !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near  I 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day ; 


THE   CROOKED  FOOTPATH  431 

Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn ; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn ; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine  I 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is  love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 

We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame ! 


THE  CROOKED    FOOTPATH 

AH,  here  it  is !  the  sliding  rail 

That  marks  the  old  remembered  spot,  - 
The  gap  that  struck  our  school-boy  trail, 

The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver-birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan ; 
With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 


432         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 
But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight. 

The  gabled  porch,  with  woodbine  green,  — 
The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 

Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 
The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 

With  shaking  knees  and  leaping  heart,  — 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 

With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 

And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 
Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line; 

Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 
To  walk  unswerving  were  divine ! 

Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath ;  — 
Oh,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path, 
We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door! 


IRIS,  HER  BOOK  433 


IRIS,  HER  BOOK 

I  PRAY  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore  thee, 
By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore  thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  before  theeJ 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  her, 

Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 

Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Nature  told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of  awaking 
Those  chorded  keys  that  soothe  a  sorrow's  aching, 
Giving  the  dumb  heart  voice,  that  else  were  break 
ing. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,    suffered.     Lo,  the   pictured 

token ! 

Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade  unspoken, 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  unbroken? 

She  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden  fancies,  — 
Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  high  romances, 
And  talked  strange  tongues   with   angels  in  her 
trances. 

Twin-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  nature  wearing : 

Sometimes  a  flashing  falcon  in  her  daring, 

Then  a  poor  mateless  dove  that  droops  despairing. 

Questioning  all  things:  Why  her  Lord  had  sent 
her? 


434         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

What  were  these  torturing  gifts,  and  wherefore 

lent  her? 
Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tormentor. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish :  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sorrows  riven, 
Save  me!     Oh,  save  me!     Shall  I  die  forgiven? 

And  then —  Ah,  God!  But  nay,  it  little  mat 
ters: 

Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn  scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes  and  shat 
ters! 

If  she  had  —     Well !     She  longed,  and  knew  not 

wherefore. 

Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to  care  for? 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer  for? 

She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set  men  dream 
ing, 

Yet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses  stream 
ing 

Showed  not  unlovely  to  her  simple  seeming. 

Vain  ?     Let  it  be  so !     Nature  was  her  teacher. 
What  if  a  lonely  and  unsistered  creature 
Loved  her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing  feature, 

Saying,  unsaddened,  —  This  shall  soon  be  faded, 
And  double-hued  the  shining  tresses  braided, 
And  all  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  shaded? 


ROBINSON  OF  LEY  DEN  435 

This  her  poor  book  is  full  of  saddest  follies, 
Of  tearful  smiles  and  laughing  melancholies, 
With  summer  roses  twined  and  wintry  hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossing  of  uncertain  chances, 
Somewhere,  beneath  some  maiden's   tear-dimmed 

glances 
May  fall  her  little  book  of  dreams  and  fancies. 

Sweet  sister  !     Iris,  who  shall  never  name  thee, 
Trembling  for  fear  her  open  heart  may  shame  thee, 
Speaks  from  this  vision-haunted  page  to  claim  thee. 

Spare  her,  I  pray  thee !     If  the  maid  is  sleeping, 
Peace  with  her !  she  has  had  her  hour  of  weeping. 
No  more  I     She  leaves  her  memory  in  thy  keeping. 

ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN 

HE  sleeps  not  here ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  citing, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said :  — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear  I 
God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

\v 


436         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

"Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod; 
Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 

All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 
And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways; 

"The  living  fountain  overflows 

For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 
Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake ;  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "Hook  of  Holland's"  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho !  for  worlds  unknown. 

And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 


ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER        437 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 

In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 
Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 

His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER 

HIS   TEMPTATION 

No  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud! 

We  know  how  cheaply  that  is  won ; 
The  idle  homage  of  the  crowd 

Is  proof  of  tasks  as  idly  done. 

A  surface-smile  may  pay  the  toil 

That  follows  still  the  conquering  Right, 

With  soft,  white  hands  to  dress  the  spoil 
That  sun-browned  valor  clutched  in  fight. 

Sing  the  sweet  song  of  other  days, 

Serenely  placid,  safely  true, 
And  o'er  the  present's  parching  ways 

The  verse  distils  like  evening  dew. 


438         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

But  speak  in  words  of  living  power,  — 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scalding  rain 

That  plashed  before  the  burning  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  cities  of  the  plain! 

Then  scowling  Hate  turns  deadly  pale,  — 
Then  Passion's  half -coiled  adders  spring, 

And,  smitten  through  their  leprous  mail, 
Strike  right  and  left  in  hope  to  sting. 

If  thou,  unmoved  by  poisoning  wrath, 
Thy  feet  on  earth,  thy  heart  above, 

Canst  walk  in  peace  thy  kingly  path, 

Unchanged  in  trust,  unchilled  in  love,  — 

Too  kind  for  bitter  words  to  grieve, 

Too  firm  for  clamor  to  dismay, 
When  Faith  forbids  thee  to  believe, 

And  Meekness  calls  to  disobey,  — 

Ah,  then  beware  of  mortal  pride  ! 

The  smiling  pride  that  calmly  scorns 
Those  foolish  fingers,  crimson  dyed 

In  laboring  on  thy  crown  of  thorns ! 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO 

IN  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may 

have  seen 
With   the    gambrel-roof,  and    the    gable  looking 

westward  to  the  green, 


THE   OPENING   OF  THE  PIANO       439 

At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on 

its  right, 
Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of 

to-night ! 

Ah  me!   how  I  remember  the  evening  when   it 

came! 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group  of  cheeks 

in  flame, 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened  that  had  come 

from  over  seas, 
With  its  smell  of  mastic-varnish  and  its  flash  of 

ivory  keys ! 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restless 
ness  of  joy, 

For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the  sister 
crowd  the  boy, 

Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave  paternal 
way, 

But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with  the  words, 
"Now,  Mary,  play." 

For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was  a   very 

sovereign  balm ; 
She  had  sprinkled  it  over  Sorrow  and  seen  its  brow 

grow  calm, 
In  the  days  of  slender  harpsichords  with  tapping 

tinkling  quills, 
Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin   metallic 

thriUs. 


440        POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 

So  Mary,  the  household  minstrel,  who  always 
loved  to  please, 

Sat  down  to  the  new  "Clementi,"  and  struck  the 
glittering  keys. 

Hushed  were  the  children's  voices,  and  every  eye 
grew  dun, 

As,  floating  from  lip  and  finger,  arose  the  "Ves 
per  Hymn." 

Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly  and  rosy-red, 
(Wedded  since,  and  a  widow,  —  something  like  ten 

years  dead,) 

Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none  before, 
Steals  from  her  mother's  chamber  and  peeps  at  the 

open  door. 

Just  as  the  "Jubilate  "  in  threaded  whisper  dies, 
"Open  it!  open  it,  lady!  "  the  little  maiden  cries, 
(For  she  thought 't  was  a  singing  creature  caged  in 

a  box  she  heard,) 
"Open  it!  open  it,  lady!     and    let  me  see  the 

Mr*/" 


MIDSUMMER 

HERE!  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away, 
I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to-day ! 
Look!  are  the  southern  curtains  drawn? 
Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone ! 

Not  that,  —  the  palm-tree's  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef ! 


MIDSUMMER  441 

Its  breath  is  heated ;  —  I  would  swing 
The  broad  gray  plumes,  —  the  eagle's  wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood!  — 
Pluck  me  a  half -blown  lily-bud, 
A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 

Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 
And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

Who  knows  it  not,  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil,  — 
The  pulse  that  flutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow! 

O  Nature !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest,  — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green  I 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 
Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with  mine, 
Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 
In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 


442         POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR 
DE  SAUTY 

AN  ELECTRO-CHEMICAL  ECLOGUE 

The  first  messages  received  through  the  submarine  cable 
were  sent  by  an  electrical  expert,  a  mysterious  personage 
who  signed  himself  De  Sauty. 

Professor  Blue-Nose 

PROFESSOR 

TELL  me,  O  Provincial!  speak,  Ceruleo-Nasal! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now  among  you, 
Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thunder, 
Holding  talk  with  nations? 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  nightcap, 
Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiving  fea 
ture 
Three  times  daily  patent? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  O  Ceruleo-Nasal? 
Or  is  he    a   my  thus, — ancient  word   for    "hum- 

bug,"- 

Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus? 

Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De  Sauty? 
Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-solution? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 


DE  SAUTY  443 

BLUE-NOSE 

Many    things     thou     askest,     jackknife-bearing 
stranger, 

Much  -  conjecturing     mortal,     pork  -  and  -  treacle- 
waster  ! 

Pretermit     thy    whittling,    wheel    thine    ear-flap 

toward  me, 
Thou  shall  hear  them  answered. 

When   the  charge   galvanic   tingled   through  the 

cable, 

At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us : 
Called  himself  "DE  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term  mam 
malia, 

So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire  electric, 
Sucking  in  the  current.  * 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed  the  pale- 
faced  stranger,  — 

Took    no   drink  nor   victual,  yet    grew  fat    and 
rosy,  — 

And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articulation, 
Said,  "All  right  I  DE  SAUTY." 

From  the    lonely   station   passed    the   utterance, 

spreading 
Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the  groves  of 

steeples, 


444        POEMS  FROM   THE  PROFESSOR 

Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  reverberations 
Of  "All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the  mystic 

stranger,  — 

Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker,  — 
Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn  odor 
Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his  forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow  suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 

C.  O.  H.  N.  Ferrum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil.  Potassa, 

Calc.    Sod.    Phosph.    Mag.    Sulphur,    Mang.  (?) 

Alumin.  (?)  Cuprum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had  perished ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no  current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear  him 
Cry,  "AU  right!  DE  SAUTY." 


NOTES 

Page  7.     There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun. 

The  Goblet  and  the  Sun  (Vas-Sol),  sculptured  on  a  free 
stone  slab  supported  by  five  pillars,  are  the  only  designation 
of  the  family  tomb  of  the  Vassalls. 

Page  45.     The  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 

See  "  The  Cambridge  Churchyard,"  on  page  5  of  this  vol 
ume. 

Page  48.     Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school-boy  scorn. 

See  "  Old  Ironsides,"  on  page  1  of  this  volume. 

Page  51.     On  other  shores,  above  their  mouldering  towns. 

Daniel  Webster  quoted  several  of  the  verses  which  fol 
low,  in  his  address  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the 
addition  to  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  July  4,  1851. 

Page  58.     Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar. 

Charles  Chauncy  Emerson  ;  died  May  9,  1836. 

Page  58.    And  thou,  dear  friend,  whom  Science  still  deplores. 

James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D. ;  died  March  28,  1834. 

Page  65.     THE  STEAMBOAT. 

Mr.  Emerson  has  quoted  some  lines  from  this  poem,  but 
somewhat  disguised  as  he  recalled  them.  It  is  never  safe  to 
quote  poetry  without  referring  to  the  original. 

Page  115.  Hark !  The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome 
sound. 

The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which  follow  are,  — 

1.  King's   Chapel,   the  foundation  of  which  was  laid  by 
Governor  Shirley  in  1749. 

2.  Brattle  Street  Church,  consecrated  in  1773.     The  com 
pletion  of  this  edifice,  the  design  of  which  included  a  spire, 
was   prevented  by  the  troubles  of  the  Revolution,  and  its 


446  NOTES 

plain,  square  tower  presented  nothing  more  attractive  than  a 
massive  simplicity.  In  the  front  of  this  tower,  till  the  church 
•was  demolished  in  1872,  there  was  to  be  seen,  half  imbedded 
in  the  brick-work,  a  cannon-ball,  which  was  thrown  from  the 
American  fortifications  at  Cambridge,  during  the  bombard 
ment  of  the  city,  then  occupied  by  the  British  troops. 

3.  The  Old  South,  first  occupied  for   public  worship  in 
1730. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809,  the  tall  white  steeple 
of  which  is  the  most  conspicuous  of  all  the  Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship  in  1723,  and 
containing  a  set  of  eight  bells,  long  the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

Page  281.     INTERNATIONAL  ODE. 

This  ode  was  sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hundred  children 
of  the  public  schools,  to  the  air  of  "  God  save  the  Queen," 
at  the  visit  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston,  October  18, 
1860. 

Pages  303  and  304.     THE  BOYS. 

The  members  of  the  Harvard  College  class  of  1829  re 
ferred  to  in  this  poem  are  :  "  Doctor,"  Francis  Thomas  ; 
"  Judge, "G.  T.  Bigelow,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  Massachusetts  ;  "  Speaker,"  Hon.  Francis  B.  Crownin- 
shield,  Speaker  of  the  Massachusetts  House  of  Representa 
tives  ;  "  Mr.  Mayor,"  G.  W.  Richardson,  of  Worcester, 
Mass.  ;  "  Member  of  Congress,"  Hon.  George  T.  Davis  ; 
"  Reverend,"  James  Freeman  Clarke  ;  "  boy  with  the  grave 
mathematical  look,"  Benjamin  Peirce  ;  "boy  with  a  three- 
decker  brain,"  Judge  Benjamin  R.  Curtis,  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States  ;  "  nice  youngster  of  excellent 
pith,"  S.  F.  Smith,  author  of  "My  Country,  'tis  of  Thee." 

Page  367.    That  lovely,  bright-eyed  boy. 

William  Sturgis. 

Page  368.  Who  faced  the  storm  so  long. 

Francis  B.  Crowninshield. 

Page  368.   Our  many-featured  friend. 

George  T.  Davis. 

Page  396.     The  close-clinging  dulcamara. 

The  "  bitter-sweet "  of  New  England  is  the  Celastrus 
tcandens,  "  bourreau  des  arbres  "  of  the  Canadian  French. 


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